The Rohan Pride Chronicles, Part III: Terms
by anolinde
Summary: The doom of the Free Peoples is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.
1. Eyes In the Dark

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**PLEASE NOTE:  
**This is the only disclaimer you will see in Terms. I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own any part of Tolkien's brainchild. I am not making any money from this. The characters I do claim are the non-canon characters—especially Gúthwyn. Every character I put in the story has a name that comes from The Lord of the Rings UK website (besides Gúthwyn), except for the rare occasion when I look up a name in a book called _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. This was where Gúthwyn, 'one who delights in battle', came from. Also, I have a very limited knowledge of fighting, whether it involves 'street smarts', swords, knives, bows, or axes, and I do not claim to be an expert on any of them.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One**

"How far is it to Isengard, Gandalf?"

Legolas' voice grated on Gúthwyn's nerves, and she flinched. As she did so, Heorot stumbled a little; the movement jolted her stomach. She winced even more, trying and failing to keep her face from contorting. It was no matter: Everyone's eyes were on the wizard, who now glanced up at the sky.

Gúthwyn looked up as well. She could barely see it through the countless tree branches that criss-crossed menacingly above them. For nearly half an hour, they had been riding through the very woods that had appeared mysteriously at the edge of the Deeping Coomb. The Uruk-hai had run for the cover of these trees, yet not one of the foul creatures had they seen.

All around them, the trees were shifting slightly. From time to time a horse would get skittish, no doubt disliking the way they were moving without a breeze to stir them. Gúthwyn herself was uneasy in these woods. Much like Fangorn, here the air seemed old, and harder to breathe in. It was as if she were riding with a blanket over her head.

"About fifteen leagues," Gandalf said then, and she hastened to listen to him, "as far as the crow makes it: Five from the mouth of Deeping-coomb to the Fords; and ten more from there to the gates of Isengard."

Ahead of her, Gúthwyn saw Théoden's back stiffen at the mention of the place where his son Théodred had fallen. She felt a twinge of sadness run through her at the thought of her cousin. Worse than the news of his death was the realization that she had never gotten a chance to say goodbye to him: He had perished six days before her arrival in Edoras with the Three Hunters and Gandalf.

She sighed heavily, just as the wizard said, "But we shall not ride all the way this night."

"And when we come there, what shall we see?" Gimli wanted to know. At this, Gúthwyn leaned forward, eager for any information Gandalf might have concerning the fate of Isengard. From the frustratingly vague hints he had given them, much had changed with the recent events, but she could not say how. She felt deeply the slight impatience in the Dwarf's tone as he continued. "You may know, but I cannot guess."

"I myself do not know for certain," Gandalf replied, his eyes briefly flickering over Gúthwyn. The wizard was actually the reason why she was here: Théoden had been unwilling to let her go, but when Gandalf had argued for her he had relented. She still did not understand why Gandalf had helped her so, but she was exceedingly glad that it was so, and would not question his motives.

The sound of Gandalf speaking entered her mind, and she shook herself from her thoughts. "I was there at nightfall yesterday," the wizard was saying to Gimli, "but much may have happened since. Yet I think that you will not say that the journey was in vain—not though the Glittering Caves of Aglarond be left behind."

Earlier, they had heard the full extent of Gimli praising the caves, at which Gúthwyn could not help but roll her eyes at various points. They were simply caves, after all, and she did not see the beauty in them that he had claimed to behold. Legolas, however, had been on the receiving end of such commentary, as Gimli was behind him upon Arod. She and the Rohirrim had listened, with much shaking of the head, to the Elf and Dwarf debating. Legolas had argued that the trees were the greater sight; Gimli had stagnantly refused to change his mind.

In the end, they had struck a bargain: To return together, when or if they survived the war, and travel through Fangorn before going to Helm's Deep to see the caves. At this agreement, Éomer had caught her eye, and they had both had to stifle grins. Neither of them could see the attraction of the caves to the Dwarf or the forest to the Elf. They were features that had been on Middle-earth for years unnumbered, and had not changed at all in that time.

Coming out of her reverie, Gúthwyn asked, "Gandalf, when you went to Isengard, did you see any humans?"

The wizard glanced at her, as did everyone else. "I saw some men," he at last replied guardedly, not seeming at all keen to continue the conversation. Yet she was desirous of news, and pressed him further.

"What about women or children?"

He shook his head. "I did not stay long," he told her, but for a moment he and Aragorn exchanged a look that she could not interpret.

After that, she did not finish the inquiry. Legolas' eyes were on her, and in order to get away from them she moved Heorot up beside Éomer. Her brother was mounted atop Firefoot, looking every bit the Second Marshal that he was. Clad in armor, died red and adorned with various symbols, he was distinct among a mass of Riders. His sword, Gúthwine—he had named it partly after her, and partly for its meaning, which was 'battle friend'—hung sheathed by his side, but she had seen him wield it at Helm's Deep, and knew that he was a formidable warrior.

"We will soon be there," Éomer reminded her then. "Patience, sister. It as a virtue you seem to have not received over the years."

He laughed when he saw her fidgeting in the saddle, and she blushed. "What I lack for patience I must make up in other areas," she replied.

Éomer glanced at her. "Have you had much practice with that sword?" he asked, gesturing at Framwine. "Théoden says that you rode to battle against the Wargs—did you kill any of them?"

"You are not mad at me?" Gúthwyn asked, looking at Théoden. He was riding at the head of the column, conversing with Gamling. "Uncle was furious."

Her brother sighed. "I wish you would not endanger yourself so," he said quietly. "Yet I have grown used to a headstrong sister over the years."

She digested the information, and then took another glance at the king. "I slew four of them," she told him at length. His eyes widened slightly; she smiled briefly before continuing. "Did Théoden tell you aught else of me?"

Éomer nodded, growing serious and looking at her closely. "All that you told him."

"Oh." Gúthwyn did not want to meet his eyes, and she stared intently at Heorot's reins.

"Did you truly think that we did not care for you?"

The question was gentle, but she cringed when her brother asked it. "Not you," she muttered to her hands. "Théoden."

He fell silent, and they did not say anything more for awhile. At length, they emerged from the woods. Gúthwyn would have been all too happy to leave the forest behind and never look back, but Legolas halted and gazed at it for a moment. And then he cried out:

"There are eyes!"

Gúthwyn gave a start, but when she squinted at the trees she could see nothing.

"Eyes looking out from the shadows of the boughs!" Legolas insisted, and she could not help but shudder at the sound of his voice. "I never saw such eyes before!"

He nudged Arod back towards the woods; Gimli gave an indignant shout. "No, no! Do as you please in your madness, but let me first get down from this horse! I wish to see no eyes!"

Gúthwyn was worried for Gimli, though privately she did not think she would care if the Elf disappeared into the forest and never returned. After how he had humiliated her back in the fortress, she was not feeling particularly kind to him.

"Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!" Gandalf commanded, and Legolas halted. Gúthwyn wondered at the surname: She had never heard it before. "Do not go back into the wood, not yet! Now is not your time."

Gúthwyn was about to turn away when something moved in the forest. She and the others gaped as three strange creatures broke forth from the trees—as part of the woods they looked—and hardly glanced at the mounted company. Raising gnarled hands to what she presumed was their mouth, they each let out ringing calls that echoed towards the north. They sounded rather musical, and Gúthwyn was astonished to hear equally melodious answers.

Then her hand gripped her sword tightly, as from out of nowhere more of these creatures appeared, striding towards them swifter than a bird.

"You need no weapons," Gandalf told them, and when she glanced around she saw that she was not the only one who had been ready to draw her sword. Nearly all of the Rohirrim had their hands curled around the hilts protruding from leather sheathes. "These are but herdsman." As he spoke, the things were moving into the woods, vanishing without so much as looking at them. "They are not our enemies; indeed, they are not concerned with us at all."

The Riders stared in amazement at him. "Herdsmen!" Théoden exclaimed in bewilderment. "What are their flocks? What are they, Gandalf?"

Gúthwyn looked at Aragorn, who had kept to himself for the entire journey, but he was silent, and she had rarely been able to interpret his expression. This time proved to be no exception, and Théoden continued as her curiosity went unsatisfied. "For it is plain to you, at any rate," he said to the wizard, "that they are not strange."

"They are shepards of the trees," Gandalf replied immediately. "Is it so long since you listened to tales by the fireside? Many years cannot have passed since you told them to your nieces, and already you have forgotten? There are children in your land who, out of the twisted threads of story, could pick out the answer to your question. You have seen Ents, O King, Ents out of Fangorn Forest, which in your tongue you call the Entwood."

_Ents!_ Gúthwyn thought in amazement. Gandalf had spoken correctly: Not much more than a decade had gone by since Théoden had sat her on his knee and told her in a low voice about these trees. They could walk and converse just as Men or Elves did, and had been on the earth far longer than the former. She had always assumed that they were the stuff of legends, entertaining enough on rainy days but never having any basis in fact. And, as with the Halflings, whom she had similarly believed to be nonexistent, she had been proven wrong.

Suddenly she realized that Gandalf was still speaking. "The evil of Sauron cannot wholly be cured, nor made as if it had not been," the wizard said. Blinking, Gúthwyn decided that she must have lost thread of the conversation quite some time ago, as she did not know how they had gotten on this topic. "But to such days we are doomed. Let us now go on with the journey we have begun!"

At his words, Théoden kicked Snowmane, and they followed him. Gúthwyn remained close to Éomer as they left the Deeping-coomb, turning towards the Fords. The sun had set while they had been in the woods, and now all was dark. She reached up with one hand to tighten Chalibeth's cloak around her. In honor of the trip to Isengard, where so many memories with her friend lay, she had elected to wear this one.

Thoughts of the hours they had spent together, cheerfully complaining about the work they had had to do and knowing fully well that such words would not accomplish anything, occupied Gúthwyn's mind so that she almost did not even notice when they arrived at the Fords. When she did, she slowed along with the others, and gaped in shock at the River Isen.

The last time she had seen these waters, she was crossing them in order to fulfill her mission to Sauron. Less than a year ago, the river had been running swiftly, tinkling merrily as it went. Yet now, hardly any water flowed before the horses' feet; instead, the Riders looked upon a bare expanse of shale and clay.

"This has become a dreary place," Éomer murmured, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What sickness has befallen the river? Many fair things has Saruman destroyed: has he devoured the springs of Isen too?"

"So it would seem," Gandalf replied soberly. Gúthwyn and her brother exchanged dark glances. So it was not enough that Saruman had ravaged the Westfold. Now he had brought the destruction to his own realm, as well.

"Alas!" Théoden cried in distress. "Must we pass this way, where the carrion-beasts devour so many good Riders of the Mark?"

In a sudden flaring up of her old anger, Gúthwyn wondered just how many less men would have perished if it had not been for Théoden's weakness. The next instant, she felt guilty for such thoughts, and tried to banish them from her mind. Haldor retreated into a corner, still muttering incessantly.

"This is our way," Gandalf said, looking across the river. "Grievous is the fall of your men; but you shall see that at least the wolves of the mountains do not devour them."

"Are there any nearby?" Gúthwyn asked anxiously, glancing around. Her fingers twitched, moving towards her sword.

Yet the wizard shrugged. "It depends on what you would call nearby," he answered. "They are out tonight, of that I am certain, but not close enough to concern us. It is with their friends, the Orcs, that they hold their feast: Such indeed is the friendship of their kind."

Gúthwyn shivered, knowing all too well that he spoke the truth. No amount of whip-lashings could deter a Warg, if they wished to eat their rider. She had seen it happen often enough, each time worse than the last.

"Come!" Gandalf cried, and they sprung forward, reaching the river swiftly. Here they paused once more, at an eyot, and gazed in wonder at it. A cairn of stones had been built, crowned with several spears that were thrust into the night. Even with her poor vision, she could tell that they were those of the Rohirrim. "Look!" the wizard exclaimed. "Friends have labored here."

Gúthwyn sent a prayer up to the Valar for those who had fallen defending the Fords, hoping that they were now in a better place.

"Here lie all the Men of the Mark that fell near this place," Gandalf murmured. The air was heavy with silence until Éomer spoke.

"Here let them rest!" he declared, his helmet shining in the darkness as he talked. "And when their spears have rotted and rusted, long still may their mound stand and guard the Fords of Isen!"

"Is this your work also, Gandalf, my friend?" Théoden wondered, looking at the cairn in surprise. "You accomplished much in an evening and a night!"

As she listened, Gúthwyn found herself staring off into the distance, looking into the blackness beyond the mound. Her eyes darted around aimlessly, though her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to be gone from this place; it was too dark, and the river was the perfect opportunity for the enemy to ambush them. There was no sound of any approach, but one could never be too careful.

That was when she saw them. Two pinpricks of light, gleaming out at her, unblinking and unswerving in their gaze. Panicking, Gúthwyn pulled back on Heorot's reins, moving the horse away from them. She nearly fainted as the eyes pinned her down, cruel in their relentlessness, not once leaving her own. Heorot snorted nervously as she shook violently; her breathing was becoming labored, and still the eyes were there…

"Gúthwyn!" Someone had nudged their horse up alongside her. Éomer. She stared at him in wild terror, unable to conceal it. "Gúthwyn, what is it?"

She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat. "T-There are _eyes_ here," she whispered, extending a quivering hand to point at them. "_Watching us!_"

Éomer followed her gaze, and then said firmly, "They will not attack us now."

"Now?" she repeated in horror. "D-Do you mean they will attack l-later?"

It was one thing to face the Wargs in the daylight—it was another thing entirely to face them in the dark, where their eyes had slowly and methodically driven her to madness, where they had waited with the voices until she let her guard down…

"Gúthwyn, listen to me!" Éomer ordered, leaning over and gripping her arm tightly. She started, looking at him in fright.

"Éomer, they are _here!_" she cried. Why did he not understand?

"You need to calm down," he hissed. "The others are staring."

He was right. Gúthwyn's trembling gaze focused on Legolas, who was watching them concernedly. With a horrible flush of shame, she realized how weak she was behaving. "I-I am sorry," she muttered, taking a deep breath. "I-I do not know what I was th-thinking…"

Éomer's hold on her loosened. "We are safe from them," he reassured her quietly, and straightened back on Firefoot. "Do not worry."

"Is everything all right?" Théoden called from the head of the column. Gúthwyn's face turned bright red, and when Éomer glanced at her, she shook her head quickly.

"Yes," her brother replied. "Let us go!"

At Éomer's command, the horses leaped forward. Like lightning the somber Fords passed behind them, and as they went a chorus of howling sounded their farewell. Gúthwyn paled, but when Éomer looked back at her she kept her face as calm as possible. Yet she did not turn her head left or right until they had gone nearly a mile away from the Fords. Her heart was hammering in her chest, more skittish than a mouse in the cats' lair.

Gradually, as they heard no more of the Wargs, she began to settle down, and focused more of her attention on the road. They were riding alongside the same path that the hunter had taken her, nearly eight years ago, back in the day when she had naively believed Saruman to be a supporter of Rohan. Much had changed since then—and she was not just thinking of herself. If the Isen was any indicator, she would find things far different from when she had lived in the Nan Curunír.

Eventually Théoden called for a halt. The men were weary, especially as they had not gotten any sleep two nights ago. Gandalf led them to a stretch of level ground at the foot of the Misty Mountains, where they had a clear view into the Vale of Saruman. Well, in most cases, it would have been clear: Now, such mist and cloud poured from it, choking the skies with its blackness, that they could discern nothing within the ring. An unsettled feeling sunk through her stomach.

"What do you think of that, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked, and Gúthwyn glanced over at the Ranger. He had not spoken for nearly the entire journey, clearly lost in his own thoughts. Now, up close, she thought he looked tired and wayworn. "One would say that all the Wizard's Vale is burning."

They were dismounting from their horses as Éomer replied, "There is ever a fume above that valley in these days, but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes."

Gúthwyn squinted, and saw that he had spoken correctly. Cold worry began seeping throughout her. What was happening there? Were the slaves being affected by it?

Éomer continued as her mind tortured itself with horrible scenarios. "Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe he is boiling all the waters of the Isen, and that is why the river runs dry."

"Maybe he is," Gandalf answered, though it did not seem as if that was his opinion. "Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing. Now let us rest for awhile, if we can."

Everyone agreed to this, and before long the other men were setting up their pallets. Gúthwyn watched them, still standing beside Heorot. She did not think she would be able to go to sleep tonight, not with the Wargs around them. Who knew if they would see a camp of slumbering men and decide the time was ripe for attack?

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped slightly, and turned to see Éomer approaching her. He had removed the bulk of his armor, namely the breastplate, and was wearing a green cloak over a simple tunic and leggings. "Are you coming?"

"I am sorry for what happened earlier," she apologized suddenly, hardly able to look at him for embarrassment. "I should not have—"

He made a motion to silence her. "Your fears are understandable," he told her, stepping closer. A firm hand was laid on her arm, which she had folded over her stomach. "Come," he said. "You will need your rest for tomorrow."

"I do not think I will get any," she whispered, shaking her head.

"You cannot just stand next to Heorot all night," he replied, and though he did have a point, she was not altogether willing to lie down and let herself become vulnerable to nightmares.

"What shall I do, then?" she asked.

"I would suggest putting your things beside mine, but all the other men lie near me," Éomer answered, casting a glance over at the huddled lumps on the ground.

"No, I will do that," she said. He would make her feel safe. She was not concerned about the guards. They were trustworthy, and even if she slept amongst them she knew their minds would not turn to dishonorable thoughts about her.

"Are you sure?" he wanted to know, eyeing the guards doubtfully.

"Yes." It was either that, or go closer to where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were sleeping, and under no circumstances would she willfully approach the Elf—especially after what had happened in the Hornburg.

Éomer waited while she retrieved her pack, then led her to where he had laid his own pallet. She put hers down close to it, relieved to have his protection from the Wargs. As much as she hated to admit it, she was still terrified of the creatures. Even after slaying four of them on the way to Helm's Deep, she was nowhere close to overcoming her fear.

"Goodnight," Éomer murmured to her as she settled down.

"Goodnight," she replied, but when her eyes closed the dreamy whispers of sleep did not assail her. For nearly two hours she was wide awake, listening to the silence that shrouded the camp, her mind alternately tossing between the gleaming eyes and the fates of the slaves at Isengard.

Midnight had passed when suddenly one of the watchmen gave a cry, rousing everyone in the camp. Gúthwyn opened her eyes and saw that, though the stars remained in the sky, the moon was not there. Then she turned to where the men were now pointing. All of the blood drained out of her face.

On either side of the river, rolling slowly towards them, was a darkness thicker than anything she had ever seen before. A great rustling noise sounded from within it, yet it was impossible to see what lay inside its depths. Panicking, Gúthwyn all but flung herself backwards in an attempt to get away from it. Something seized her chest, making it harder to breathe… harder to think… harder to move…

"Stay where you are!" Gandalf warned them. "Draw no weapons! Wait! and it will pass you by!"

Éomer's hand clamped down on her shoulder just as the darkness swallowed the camp. The rustling grew louder. Gúthwyn squirmed under her brother's grip, terrified of this thing, this thing that was threatening to destroy her. Yet he would not release her. Nothing could she see around her, not even Éomer. And then the voices came, swirling around her with the shadows.

_You are pathetic… worthless…_

_A useless whore…_

_Borogor loved you, and you betrayed him…_

It was as if a great pillow had been pressed over her mouth and nose. Gúthwyn choked as the breath left her body, then felt a speeding darkness overcome her that had nothing to do with that which surrounded them. She wavered, and fainted.


	2. Grim Tidings

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Two:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Those of you who are huge fans of the book will notice that I took much of the dialogue from The Two Towers—this is because the movie does not cover the journey between Helm's Deep and Isengard at all, so it was necessary. I tend to not like copying the books, but there you have it.

**Chapter Two**

With a sigh, Legolas stretched his arms into the air, banishing the last vestiges of sleep from his body. It had been a long night; much of it they had spent riding, and even when they had made camp there was little rest to be found. After the darkness had surrounded them, the impenetrable gloom causing many of the men to cry out and reach for their swords, something else had happened. The River Isen had awoken again, bringing to them the sound of rushing water as it flowed in its bed once more.

He gazed at it now, pleased to see life returning to this barren place. He could only imagine how the Fords had been in the days before Saruman had turned to evil; if the wizard had not changed sides, the greenery would have flourished. Alas for these times! It seemed that much beauty was doomed to be destroyed and ravaged by the servants of the Enemy.

His thoughts were interrupted when Théoden and Éomer came near him, conversing quietly with each other as they readied their horses. They certainly noticed him, but did not lower their voices, and he felt less guilty for overhearing them.

"And when do you think we shall arrive at Isengard?" Éomer wanted to know, glancing at the king.

"After noon, I expect," Théoden replied, then looked around the camp. Most of the men were up, putting back on the armor that they had not worn during the night or saddling their horses. "Where is Gúthwyn?"

"She is still sleeping," Éomer answered, pointing. Legolas followed his gaze and saw the familiar, huddled-up shape lying on the ground. "I thought I would wait until it was absolutely necessary to wake her up."

"Did she get enough rest last night?" Théoden queried, absent-mindedly stroking Snowmane.

Éomer looked grim. "I think she was awake until the darkness came."

Théoden sighed. After that, few of the men had fallen back asleep. "At the very least, she managed to get some repose."

"She fainted," Éomer muttered, now casting a swift look at Legolas. He became aware that he had been watching them for quite some time, and quickly turned his attentions back to Arod with an apologetic smile.

"Fainted?" Théoden repeated, puzzled. "Had she had enough to eat?"

"That was not the reason," Éomer said, shifting slightly so that his face was blocked from Legolas' view. The words that he said were so quiet that Théoden had to strain to hear them, but Legolas' ears caught them perfectly. "She was already frightened of the Wargs, and when the shadows swallowed us she panicked."

"This is exactly why I did not want her to come!" Théoden exclaimed in aggravation. "All she is doing is reliving her past! Why Gandalf spoke up for her, I will never understand—and now I regret listening to him!"

"Whatever the wizard's motives are," Éomer replied, "I do not know. But pray do not mention this to her, for she will only grow angry with me."

"As you wish," Théoden said, sighing and casting one last anxious look at his niece. "Now come: I desire to take counsel with Gamling."

Éomer nodded, then turned to face Legolas. "Legolas," he began, "will you wake my sister?"

Legolas gave a short bow, but inwardly warning signals were going off in his mind. Clearly Éomer did not know the full extent of Gúthwyn's terror of him. He did not want to have to catch her off-guard anymore than he already had recently, as that would only serve to make her even angrier with him. And if she was already edgy from the Wargs and the shadows, who knew how she would react to waking up with him above her?

Yet he followed through on the Marshal's request, weaving his way amongst the other men as he walked towards Gúthwyn. As always, she was curled in a tiny ball, clutching her knees tightly to her chest. Hesitantly he knelt beside her, reaching out to gently prod her on the shoulder.

"Gúthwyn?" he asked quietly, hoping that she would hear him speaking and open her eyes. Though she stirred briefly, otherwise she did not move.

Now he shook her shoulder more persistently. "Gúthwyn," he said again, this time louder. "It is time to wake up."

Her eyelids began fluttering. Legolas moved back a little as they slowly opened, accompanied by a wide yawn. Then she caught sight of him.

Faster than a running deer she scrambled backwards, staring at him in horror and trying to clutch the blanket around her. "What are you doing?" she hissed, her chest heaving up and down and her breathing ragged. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Your brother wanted me to wake you up," he explained. _What on Middle-earth did Haldor do to you?_ he wondered sadly. It seemed that no matter what he did, she would always remain terrified of him. The more he tried to overcome this barrier, the worse things became.

"And there was no one else for the job?" she snapped, getting to her feet and picking up her things. Legolas blinked, standing up as well.

"I am sorry," he tried to apologize, but she strode past him, her face whiter than the first snowfall on a cold winter's morning. For a moment he stood there, staring down at where she had been resting peacefully not seconds before.

Then he sighed, and went to ready Arod.

* * *

It was with a grim gaze that Gúthwyn looked upon the lands of the Nan Curunír. The highway that the Rohirrim were riding on was well kept and neatly paved, but the same could not be said for their surroundings. The last time she had seen this place, she had been in the midst of an Uruk-hai troop, who had been responsible for bringing her to the Dark Land. Even then, she had noticed the decay, but it was startling to see how bleak and barren things were now.

In the days of old, Isengard used to be acres of greenery and lush plant life, each foot tended carefully to by workers, yet now all was in disrepair. Brambles and thorns ran wildly and unchecked amongst the coarse weeds, choking all life that might have survived. There were no trees anymore—only short and broken stumps, blackened with ash and dust.

Gúthwyn stared at it sadly. "This place used to be beautiful," she said to Éomer, who was riding next to her. He looked at her. "When I saw it for the first time, I did not think that Saruman was evil."

"He fooled many," Éomer replied darkly.

"Myself included." It was Gandalf who had spoken, glancing back at the two siblings. His eyes flicked over Gúthwyn's downtrodden expression. "And long ago, he used to be good. His fall is one of the most grievous Middle-earth has seen, and we may yet rue it more."

"I would rather kill him than mourn him," Gúthwyn muttered.

For some more miles they rode beneath the climbing sun. The highway became broader, and looking down Gúthwyn could see the stones that were paving it. Such skill had been put forth in their making that not a crack could be seen between them. On either side of the road, water tinkled merrily in a gutter, running ahead of them to where the stone ring was. Though she had lived in Isengard for four years, this was only the third time she had traversed this lane.

A sudden quiet fell on the group then, and when she lifted herself slightly above the saddle she saw the reason for the chill. The great black stone, carven in the shape of a hand with long, gnarled fingers, was looming over them. It had been painted white, but now as the Riders drew closer Gúthwyn perceived that the nails were red, so that the hand appeared to be bleeding.

She shivered at the sight, and as they went around it she did not give it another glance. Instead, she focused her attention on where she knew the stone wall was, though she could not see it through the strange mists that were surrounding Isengard. Yet Gandalf led them into the fog, heedless of whatever dangers might have been awaiting them. A gnawing sensation was growing in Gúthwyn's stomach; she was so nervous that her hands were twitching, even as she tightened them on Heorot's reins.

The ground below them was wet, and covered with many small pools and puddles—as if there had been a flood recently. But the true surprise revealed itself when they neared the wall. A forest had planted itself before the ring, so thick that she could not see through the gnarled tree boughs into what lay beyond.

"Gandalf," Gúthwyn said when he showed signs of leading them into it, "what is going on here? What has happened to Isengard?"

"I expect we will find out soon enough," Gandalf replied, much to her frustration. Éomer glanced at her as they followed the wizard into the woods.

"Are you worried about the other slaves?" he asked quietly. She frowned, and did not say anything, but he read the answer in her eyes. "It may be that nothing has happened to them."

At that moment, Gúthwyn saw Legolas. He was staring around them at the old trees, and his gaze passed over her for the briefest instant. She flushed, berating herself for her weakness. No response did she give to Éomer, and the rest of the trip was undertaken in silence.

_Please,_ she prayed to the Valar as they went deeper into the woods, _let Cobryn and the others have come to no harm._ If anything had happened to them… She did not think she would be able to bear more loss. So many deaths had there been over the years: Beregil, Borogor, Boromir, Théodred, and the countless numbers of those who had fallen at Helm's Deep. If anyone had seen her face in that moment, they would have been looking into glistening eyes. _To say nothing of Haldor,_ she thought, and her face hardened.

Eventually, the forest grew thinner. Gúthwyn urged Heorot to go faster, unable to stand the suspense any longer. When they at last emerged from the woods, she felt her mouth drop open in shock. In place of the doors, which she had fully expected to be closed to them, there was a heap of twisted rubble. The tunnel that had passed into the ring was now without a roof, gaping open to the azure skies above. She could see the room that the guards had feasted in, littered with fragments of rock and wood.

Though much of the ring was now destroyed, it was still tall enough that Gúthwyn was unable to look beyond it into the lawn of Orthanc. Yet her thoughts were distracted by the sight of two small figures, bare-footed and curly-haired, sitting upon the crumbled stone as though they had not a care in the world. Her heart leapt into her throat.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!" Merry said, standing up beside Pippin and gesturing—with a hand that clenched a smoking pipe—towards the ebony tower.

Words could not describe Gúthwyn's amazement at seeing them here, unharmed amidst all the chaos. It was Gimli who found his voice first, calling to them as the Riders filed out before the ring. "You young rascals!" he growled, looking both relieved and furious. "A merry hunt you have lead us on, and now we find you feasting… and smoking!" Indeed, the two Hobbits had before them a picnic of food; most of it looked very fine, considering the circumstances. As a slave, Gúthwyn had never seen that which they were now eating.

Pippin appeared indignant. "We are sitting on a field of victory," he corrected the Dwarf, "enjoying a few well-earned comforts." Giving them a nod, he simultaneously tipped his pipe to them. "The salted pork," he continued in a pleased manner, "is quite good."

"Salted pork?" Gimli spluttered in disbelief.

"Hobbits," Gandalf snorted, and Gúthwyn smiled.

"Well met, Merry and Pippin," she said to them. The wide grins on their faces spread even further when they saw her.

"Well met to you, my lady!" Merry exclaimed, bowing low and employing his most courteous speech. "The hours have been long without you and the others."

Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw Éomer's eyebrows rise, but he said nothing. "The hours have been long," she agreed. "Too long. I doubted that we would see each other again. How is it that you come to be here, safe and unharmed?"

"This tale," Gandalf interjected, "especially in the hands of Hobbits, will keep us all here until tomorrow. There will be a time for stories, yet it is not now—for myself, anyway. Where is Treebeard, Merry?"

Gúthwyn did not know who or what Treebeard was, but evidently it must have been of great importance, if Gandalf wished to see it. Merry pointed towards the other end of the ring. "Away on the north side, I believe," he replied. Pippin nodded. "He went to get a drink—of clean water."

At the emphasis the Hobbit placed on "clean," Gúthwyn frowned. What had he meant by that? Once again, she tried to crane her neck to see over the rubble, but she could not.

Merry continued. "Most of the other Ents are with him, still busy at their work—over there." He gestured, and for the third time Gúthwyn's vision was foiled by the rock. Yet Éomer, only a foot or so taller than her, appeared to be focusing on something in the distance.

"Éomer," she muttered in an undertone, "what do you see?"

Her brother glanced at her. "All of Isengard is underwater," he replied, his voice quiet. "Only heaps of wreckage and Orthanc are visible above it."

She gaped at him. "What of the rest of the wall?" All of the slaves had lived there, in rooms that were smaller than her own at Meduseld; they had been delved into the rock during the building of Isengard.

He shook his head. "Much of it is destroyed," he told her.

Feelings of panic swirled within her. "Can you see anyone there?" she demanded, leaning closer to him.

His eyes, filled with pity, met hers. "No one."

The breath left Gúthwyn's body. How could there be no one, unless they had all perished? If the rock wall was destroyed, the slaves would have had to come out during its ruin, but Éomer had seen none of them… Could they be sheltering in Orthanc, perhaps? What had happened to the Nan Curunír? How had such destruction been brought about? Why was there water everywhere?

Her tortured thoughts were interrupted by Gandalf, asking Merry if Treebeard had left him a message. Half in a daze, Gúthwyn listened as Merry answered:

"He left a message, and I was coming to it, but I have been hindered by many other questions." He put his pipe back in his mouth, inhaling once before putting it back down. Gúthwyn stared at the smoke, finding it akin to that which now surrounded the Nan Curunír. Éomer watched her concernedly, but she was unable to even falsely signal to him that she was all right.

Merry was still speaking. "I was to say," he said, "that, if the Lord of the Mark and Gandalf will ride to the northern wall they will find Treebeard there, and he will welcome them. I may add that they will also find food of the best there, as it was discovered and selected by your humble servants."

He gave a low bow, much to the wizard's amusement. Laughing, Gandalf exclaimed, "That is better!" Then he turned to the king, who had been watching the Hobbits in mild amaze and surprise. "Well, Théoden, will you ride with me to find Treebeard? We must go round about, but it is not far."

Gúthwyn's mind began to wander from the conversation. Now, more than anything, she wanted to see for herself what was going on at Isengard. She thought she would be driven mad by the unanswered questions. Her hands, gripping Heorot's reins more tightly than they had reason to be, were white and sweating. What if none of the slaves were there? What if none of them had survived in the four years since she had last seen them?

"Gúthwyn!"

The sound of her name being called gave her a start, and she jumped slightly before turning to Théoden. Gandalf was already beginning to lead Shadowfax around the ring; she realized that they were about to find Treebeard.

"Yes?" she asked, her heart recovering slightly.

"Are you coming, or will you stay with your friends?"

Gúthwyn blinked, and then saw that neither Merry, Pippin, Aragorn, Legolas, nor Gimli had moved. Éomer had already gone to follow Gandalf, as had the rest of the Riders—should she stay or go? A part of her wanted to speak with Treebeard, and see if he knew anything about the slaves, but a greater part of her wanted… _needed_ to look upon Isengard.

"I-I think I will stay," she replied, glancing at Aragorn. The expression on his face did not change, but she thought she detected the faint trace of a smile.

"You look pale," Théoden said. "Are you feeling all right?"

She nodded. "I am fine."

He looked at her for another moment, as if trying to see whether or not she spoke the truth, but at length he inclined his head. "Take care," he said, and then turned to Merry and Pippin. "Farewell, my Hobbits!" he called. The two Halflings beamed. "May we meet again in my house! There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them, and more besides."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn grinned to imagine the two Hobbits in Meduseld, cheering the king's table with stories of the Shire. They were sure to capture the adoration of the people, especially in these dark times where few happy things came to light.

"Farewell!" Théoden cried then, and with that he and Snowmane departed. Gúthwyn watched as they met up with Gandalf and the other Riders, soon disappearing around the bend.

"So that is the King of Rohan!" Pippin murmured in awe. "A fine old fellow. Very polite."

Gúthwyn smiled, but all too soon the grin faded from her place, usurped by the worry and anxiety that were gnawing at her insides. Unable to contain herself any longer, she dismounted Heorot and left him to graze on the grass. Crossing to where Merry and Pippin were still standing on the ruined gate, she leaped on top of the crumbled stone. Aragorn called out a warning to her, though she did not heed it, and raced forward so she could look upon Isengard.

Her jaw dropped. Just as Éomer had said, the entire place was covered in water. She could not see the ground, so dense and foul was the liquid. As she gazed in horror to the far end of the ring, where the slaves' quarters had been, she saw that much of the rock was now gone. It was clear that the Ents were behind this—only they had the power to rip apart the stone wall. Not a single soul did she see wandering amongst the wreckage.

Trembling, she turned to Merry and Pippin. "When did this happen?" she asked hoarsely.

"Two days ago," Pippin answered at once.

"Where are the people?" she demanded, on the verge of hysteria. Everyone was staring at her, but she needed to know where the slaves had gone. "The men? The women? The children? Where are they?"

For a moment, both of the Halflings looked dumbfounded, and she resisted the sudden urge to shake them. After what seemed like forever, Merry spoke up. "There are no women and children here," he said awkwardly. "At least, none that we saw. Most of the men were killed, although Treebeard let a few of them go."

"Killed?" Gúthwyn repeated numbly.

Pippin nodded. "I'm sorry," he told her, even as he gazed at her in confusion. "Did… did you know them?"

Gúthwyn barely heard him: A funny rushing noise was in her ears. "By the Valar," she whispered, and sat down on a boulder. Her face was in her hands only seconds later, and she could not stop her shoulders from heaving up and down.


	3. Sorrow and Grief

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Three:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Those of you who are huge fans of the book will notice that I took much of the dialogue from The Two Towers—this is because the movie does not cover the journey between Helm's Deep and Isengard at all, so it was necessary. I tend to not like copying the books, but there you have it.

**Chapter Three**

Dead. The men, women, and children. Gúthwyn's mind buzzed in a dizzying whirlwind as she closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories of all her times at Isengard. The conversations in between duties. The daily swordfights. Cobryn. Lebryn. Abaudia. Onyveth. Feride. Gwollyn. Regwyn. All of them… gone. Just like that; never to be remembered by anyone except for her.

"Gúthwyn?" Pippin's concerned, hesitant voice met her ears, and she blinked away the tears that she did not even know had collected before glancing up at him. "Is something wrong?"

They had not heard her story. "I was a slave at this place," she said, looking the Hobbit straight in the eyes. He blinked, and his mouth opened. "The people were my family…"

She glanced over Pippin's shoulder, and saw that Aragorn was watching her intently. Flushing, she turned away, not able to endure the pity in his eyes. "Forget it," she said abruptly, standing up and inwardly loathing herself for her weakness. Casting one last angry glance at the waters, she finished: "It is nothing."

"I am sorry," Pippin said, and would have continued, but she held up a hand. If she listened to whatever else he had in mind, she felt as if she would burst into tears. "Please," she replied, trying to keep her voice from choking, "let us not speak of it. You are alive, beyond all hope, and that is what matters."

Going past Merry, who was looking at her in bewilderment, she jumped off of the rocks. As she landed, Aragorn gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "Well, well!" he sighed, clearly trying to navigate the conversation away from such a painful topic. "The hunt is over, and we meet again at last, where none of us ever thought to come."

Legolas spoke then, startling Gúthwyn far more than she would have liked to admit, especially in her already vulnerable state. "And now that the great ones have gone to discuss high matters, the hunters can perhaps learn the answers to their own small riddles."

Although Gúthwyn did not particularly feel like talking to anyone at the moment, she had to admit that she was interested in how the Halflings had gotten here with hardly a scratch. Hardly, for Merry had a small cut above his right eye.

"We tracked you as far as the forest," Legolas continued, sending shivers up and down her spine, "but there are still many things that I should like to know the truth of."

"And there is a great deal, too, that we want to know about you," Merry answered, casting a curious glance at Gúthwyn. "We have learned a few things through Treebeard, the Old Ent, but that is not nearly enough. And, begging your pardon," he said, turning to Gúthwyn, "though I am also interested in your story."

She shook her head. "I understand your curiosity," she replied quietly, looking down at her hands.

"All in good time," Legolas said after an awkward pause. His eyes held hers for a moment, and she flinched. "We were the hunters, and you should give an account of yourselves to us first."

Suddenly, Gúthwyn did not want to be surrounded by her companions. She wanted to be alone, so that she could mourn the loss of her friends in peace.

"Or second," Gimli said then, rubbing his belly. "It would go better after a full meal. I have a sore head; and it is past mid-day."

And so it was, but no hunger yet assailed her stomach. Nor did she think that she would be able to swallow any food after the news she had just received.

"You truants might make amends," Gimli continued, his red beard wagging as he talked, "by finding us some of the plunder that you spoke of. Food and drink would pay off some of my score against you."

"Then you shall have it," Pippin assured him, clearly glad to be of service. Gúthwyn watched the exchange disinterestedly; occasionally, her eyes wandered over to Orthanc. Saruman was there… "Will you have it here, or in more comfort in what's left of Saruman's guard-house—over there under the arch?" He gestured, and Gúthwyn saw with a pang the skeletal remains of the room where she and Chalibeth had often gone to get the slaves' food. "We had to picnic out here, so as to keep an eye on the road."

"Less than an eye!" Gimli exclaimed, snorting. "But I will not go into any Orc house; nor touch Orcs' meat or anything that they have mauled."

Gúthwyn put a hand over her now-queasy stomach, remembering the foul meals that the soldiers in Udûn had been given. For a moment, she even felt as if she would vomit when thoughts of Haldor, forcing her to eat, attacked her viciously. When she at last regained control of herself, she glanced up to see Legolas watching her. She knew, without a doubt, that he had interpreted her feelings—just as Haldor would have done.

Instinctively, she backed away from him, fixing her gaze on the two Hobbits rather than meeting the Elf's. Curling her sweaty palms into fists, she tried to focus on the conversation before her, but it took her several seconds to hear what Merry and Gimli were saying.

"But that is another story," Merry declared, "which can wait until after lunch."

In her fear, she had not heard what they had been speaking of, and was at a temporary loss.

"Well, let us go and have lunch then!" Gimli said. At his words, he, Aragorn, and Legolas began following the Hobbits into the guard-house. Gúthwyn lingered outside. Even though she was curious to hear Merry and Pippin's tale, the sadness overwhelming her was so absolute that she could not trust herself to keep a blank face as they ate their meal.

She became aware that Legolas had stopped, and was looking at her. "Are you coming?" he asked.

Under the gaze of his cool blue eyes, she shivered. "N-No," she managed. "I-I am not hungry."

"I would stay out of the water," he cautioned her, and she frowned. "We do not know what might lie beneath it."

"What I do is no concern of yours," Gúthwyn snapped. Not wanting to have to endure his company any longer, she turned away, praying that he would not pursue his interrogation. To her relief, he did not: She heard nothing more from him, and when she dared to look over her shoulder he was not there. Thanking the Valar for their mercy, she climbed the crumbling rocks again.

A small, foolish part of her had been hoping that the sight of Orthanc standing amidst the dirty water was only a dream, but she had no such luck. As she stared at the murky surface, she felt something inside her breaking. No matter what had she had been through in Mordor, she had always imagined the Isengard slaves to be safe, free from that which had broken and humiliated her. To have those thoughts be proven horribly wrong was almost more than she could bear.

Falling to her knees, she buried her face in her hands. It was better than having to see what could very well be her friends' graves—from the looks of it, Isengard had been flooded, and her heart wrenched to think of how many had fallen prey to the rushing waters—or looking upon Orthanc, which was even now unharmed. A raw surge of anger came over her as she pictured Saruman standing out on the balcony, watching as those who had served him thanklessly for countless years perish, without a twinge of remorse in his glittering eyes.

_I would take his neck and break it, if it were in my power to do so,_ she thought to herself, digging her nails into her skin for lack of a better surface to take her anger out on.

How long she was out there, a lone figure in the desolation of Isengard, she did not know. But eventually she heard the sound of voices, and hastily scrambled to her feet. Turning around, she saw Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and the Hobbits coming out of the guard-house. With the exception of Legolas, they all clutched pipes in their hands.

"You missed a good meal," Gimli told her, sighing contentedly and patting his stomach. The five of them came up to join her on the piled stones; as they did, she felt Aragorn's keen eyes on her.

Glancing at the Ranger, she replied, "I was not hungry, and had much to think about."

"There is much to listen to, as well," Pippin replied, putting his pipe firmly in his mouth. As a result, the last half of his sentence was muffled.

"Now let us take our ease here for a little!" Aragorn exclaimed, lowering himself onto the rock. For a moment, Gúthwyn could not figure out what was so strange about the sight: Then she realized that she had never truly seen him relaxing before. "We will sit on the edge of ruin and talk, as Gandalf says, while he is busy elsewhere. I feel a weariness such as I have seldom felt before."

The others settled themselves around him as he put his pipe between his lips and leaned back. Soon, a thin stream of smoke expelled itself from his mouth. With his Elven cloak obscuring the mail shirt that he wore, and his legs stretched out before him, he appeared more like a simple village man than ever.

"Look!" Pippin cried, of similar mind. "Strider the Ranger has come back!"

The Hobbits referred to the Dúnadan alternately as Aragorn and Strider, which was the name he had given them on their first meeting. It had taken place in the town of Bree; Gúthwyn remembered sadly that Feride had been from there.

"He has never been away," Aragorn replied then, inhaling the smoky fumes deeply. "I am Strider and Dúnadan too, and I belong both to Gondor and the North."

As he spoke, the clouds about the group grew larger, as more of them had started smoking. Gúthwyn could not long tolerate the ash, and moved away from them slightly. Leaning against one of the larger rocks, she stared out at Orthanc, wondering where Saruman was. Had he taken refuge in his study, or in another room of the tower? Would he speak with them, or would he just ignore them?

She had not been pondering the wizard's whereabouts for long when she became aware that Pippin was preparing to tell his story. Straightening, she looked back at him and listened closely.

"Well, my tale begins with waking up in the dark and finding myself all strung up in an Orc camp," the Halfling started, glancing at Merry as he did so and receiving a nod. Emboldened, Pippin continued. He told them of how the Uruk-hai had been joined by an Orc troop some distance into the journey, and of the numerous bickering and squabbles that had broken out as a result of this.

From there, the story progressed to the night when the Rohirrim had ambushed the Uruk-hai. Gúthwyn paid extra close attention to this part, desiring to hear of her brother's deeds. Most of what Pippin said matched Aragorn's guesses, made in a moment of desperation on the plains of Rohan. Grishnákh had been the Orc who had chased them into the forest, only to meet his death beneath the foot of Treebeard.

Then Merry took up the tale, and spoke of meeting the other Ents, and the Entmoot that had occurred for over nearly three days and three nights. It all sounded strange to Gúthwyn, who was still only beginning to imagine the legends of her childhood coming to life, but the others were enraptured by Merry's account of the proceedings. Gúthwyn grew more interested as the story turned to how the Ents had grown furious on the third day, and started the march to Isengard right then and there.

It had taken the Ents less than a day to reach the Nan Curunír, and they had wasted no time in issuing a challenge to Saruman. Their only answer had been an attack of arrows and rocks, which had merely served to make them angrier. Even Merry and Pippin shuddered as they told of how easily Isengard had been ripped apart by the strength of the Ents, nearly older than the world itself and their hatred long restrained.

The Halflings were just beginning to finish the story when suddenly Legolas sat up. "Look yonder," he said, pointing. "Two men have come around Orthanc and are approaching us."

Gúthwyn, who had been turned towards the others, hastily swiveled around. From this distance, she could only see two blurry shapes. "What do they look like?" she demanded, straining to see them.

"They have not noticed us yet," Legolas replied, "but I can see them clearly. One walks with a limp; the other is missing his right arm."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock, and she scrambled forward to get a better look.

"Do not go in the water!" Aragorn cautioned her, getting to his feet and coming up behind her.

"They are in it," she snarled, her eyes fixed on Lebryn. It had to be him. As the two men drew closer, moving slowly in the murky waters, she could see the dark hair framing his face, and made out a few of his harsh features. Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest. She did not recognize the other man, but to know that Lebryn was alive…

Just then, Lebryn glanced up and saw them. He tugged on the other man's arm, halting as he did so. His companion looked to where Lebryn was gesturing, and stopped as well. Gúthwyn thought there was something familiar about his features, but she had not known anyone in Isengard with a limp, and he was too far away for her to see plainly.

For a long moment, Lebryn and his friend stood there. When Lebryn tilted his head towards the other man and jerked his hand backwards, signaling that they should leave before any trouble came about, Aragorn called, "Come here, good men!"

His voice boomed across the waters; at the same time, Legolas stood up beside him, shifting so that his bow was visible to the men.

"Do not dare shoot them," Gúthwyn hissed, every word dripping with venom. The Elf glanced at her in surprise.

"Do you know them?" he questioned, watching the two men out of the corner of his eye.

She did not answer. As Gimli, Merry, and Pippin came to join them, she watched Lebryn engage in a swift debate with the other man. And then, slowly, the two of them started walking forwards.

"What are your names?" Aragorn asked when they had gotten closer. The man with a limp halted, and gave a short bow. Gúthwyn felt her breath catch in her throat. She knew him, she knew who he was…

"Cobryn, my lord," he answered courteously, straightening as he did so. "My companion is Lebryn."

"Come here," Aragorn replied, allowing his fingers to curl around the hilt of his sword.

"I swear to you, Aragorn," she growled as Cobryn and Lebryn drew nearer, "if you harm them I shall kill you."

"If they are not Saruman's faithful servants, then we need not worry," Aragorn muttered back, looking at her keenly.

Now, Cobryn and Lebryn were almost at the foot of the rocks. The two of them kept their eyes on Aragorn, though now and then they glanced at Gúthwyn. She saw confusion on both of their faces, and realized with a start that they did not recognize her without the Warg bite.

"What is your business here?" Aragorn questioned them.

"I would ask the same of you," Lebryn snapped, and swiftly Cobryn clamped a hand down on the young man's shoulder.

"My apologies," he said to Aragorn quietly. "We are searching for our friends." Once again, he looked at Gúthwyn, narrowing his eyes.

"And who might they be?" the Ranger pressed.

"Slaves, just as ourselves," Cobryn told him, inclining his head in a short bow. His eyes flickered to Gúthwyn again. She could see him trying to figure out who she was, but did not say anything for the time being. Beside him, Lebryn looked as if he were similarly perplexed.

"How long have you been here?" Aragorn wanted to know.

"Since the flood was over, my lord," Cobryn replied. "We slept just outside of the ring, and started our search early in the morning."

"Have you found anyone?" Gúthwyn asked then.

Cobryn and Lebryn both stared at her. "Excuse me, my lady," Cobryn said, his normally level voice shaky, and his dark brown eyes wide. "Have you been to Isengard before? You look just like… but you are not…" He trailed off.

"You are a fool, Cobryn," she said, though a grin was spreading over her face. "And you, too, Lebryn," she addressed the now thunderstruck man. "It has not even been four years since I left, and already you cannot tell who I am? I expected better of you."

For a full minute, the two of them gaped at her, looking as if they hardly dared to believe what they were hearing. It was Cobryn who first recovered the use of his voice. "G-Gúthwyn?" he asked, stepping closer. "Is that—"

He got no further before she leaped off of the rocks and splashed her way over to him. "What do you think?" she whispered, and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug.

Less than a second later, his arms were wrapped firmly around her, and she was lifted slightly off of her feet. "By the Valar," he breathed in amazement. "Gúthwyn, how did you—how is this—"

"Be quiet!" she scolded him, embracing him even tighter. "I missed you so much," she murmured, pulling back from him slightly to examine his face. It was the same as she remembered it from her days at Isengard, hardly aged at all. There was still great cunning and wit in his eyes, yet when she looked closer she saw a deep weariness underlying everything.

He, too, was studying her, and one of his hands gently touched where the Warg bite had been. She did not flinch from such contact, as she would have done with just about anyone besides Éomer. "It is gone…"

As she smiled broadly, he let go of her, and she was free to greet Lebryn. She went over to the young man, and immediately said, "You have grown taller than me."

He smirked at her. Tall, muscular, and extraordinarily handsome had the grumpy boy she recalled become—and he knew it. "Do I get a hug, as well?" he teased her. "Or does Cobryn get all of the luck?"

In response, she embraced him, but when they separated she slapped him across the face. As he winced, she grinned and said, "I hope you do not go through life approaching women like that!"

Cobryn laughed, though once again she thought she detected something off about him. "I could have seen that coming," he said. "It is good to see that someone can keep their wits around you!"

"Would you mind introducing us?"

The three of them turned to see Gimli planting his axe on the ground and leaning forward. A grin was tugging at the corners of his lips, and he looked with happy eyes upon the reunion.

"Yes, of course," Gúthwyn replied, and then took Cobryn and Lebryn's hands to bring them over to her companions. Both Aragorn and Gimli stepped back, allowing them to clamber onto the rocks and get out of the water. "Everyone," she said, "this is Cobryn, and Lebryn. They were my good friends in Isengard. Cobryn, Lebryn, this is Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

The Ranger inclined his head. "My apologies for what may have seemed an unnecessary interrogation," he said.

"It was not unnecessary, my lord," Cobryn assured him.

"Indeed," Lebryn added, "had there been less of you and a weapon in our hands, I for one would not have hesitated to do the interrogating."

Gúthwyn smiled. "Then we have Gimli, and the two Hobbits Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, who prefer to be known as Merry and Pippin."

Both Cobryn and Lebryn could not conceal their surprise at seeing the Halflings. "Forgive me for staring," Cobryn said, "but I have only heard of your kind in legends."

"Very few have even heard of us at all," Merry reassured him. Pippin nodded in agreement.

"And then," Gúthwyn continued, tensing as her eyes fell upon the Elf, "there is Legolas."

Legolas said an Elvish greeting, which Gúthwyn did not understand a word of, but Cobryn repeated it almost fluently. At this, both Aragorn and the Elf started. "Are you from Gondor?" the Ranger asked her friend.

"Yes, my lord—from the White City itself," Cobryn replied. "Though I only know a little of the Elven language, I am afraid."

"You spoke it well," Legolas said.

"Cobryn," Gúthwyn began then, remembering his words from earlier, "you said you were searching for your friends. What became of the others?"

At this, Cobryn and Lebryn exchanged dark looks. Cobryn's jaw clenched as he said, "We are trying to find Gwollyn and Regwyn."

She glanced back and forth between the two of them, confused. "What about Abaudia, Onyveth, or Feride?"

Something moved in Cobryn's face, and for a split second he looked like the saddest man in the world. "Gúthwyn, will you help us find Gwollyn and Regwyn? I promise, we will tell you what happened after… after we bury them."

"What?" she gasped, staring in shock at him. "How do you know they have perished? I thought you were both dead, and here you are!"

Cobryn shook his head. "Please, Gúthwyn, we do not have much more ground to search."

Now deeply disturbed, Gúthwyn turned to her companions. "I am going with them," she said.

Aragorn nodded, and for a moment she was surprised that he had not even protested. "We will wait here for Théoden," he replied, "and tell him where you have gone."

Cobryn shot her a quick glance. "The king is here?" he asked.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Let us go," she said. "For the past two days, I have tortured myself with worry. I do not wish to lengthen such hours."

"Aye, neither do I," Cobryn responded, and with that the three of them set off. As they sloshed through the water, Gúthwyn saw that he was still limping.

"What happened to your leg?" she asked, wondering if he had broken it again. When he had pulled her away from the bite of Sharkû's whip, he had been beaten so badly that his leg had broken. That had been nearly four years ago, however.

"You do not recall me in a cast when you left?" Cobryn inquired.

"But… did it not heal?" She frowned, trying to imagine why that would be so.

"Well," Cobryn sighed, "after I ran on it, it never recovered."

He had been running after her, when she had fled the slaves' dwelling in a blind frenzy. Horrorstruck, Gúthwyn stopped. The brown water lapped at her shins, passing through the already soaked fabric of her leggings. "Oh, Cobryn…" she whispered, a lump forming in her throat. "I am so sorry…"

"It was not your fault," Cobryn told her firmly. "I should have let someone else try to find you. Do not blame yourself for my foolishness."

"But—"

"Not a word," he cut her off, a sad smile on his face. "I am used to it by now."

All the same, Gúthwyn felt a horrible guilt swarming over her as they continued, peering into the dim waters in hopes of seeing a body. Now and again, Lebryn stooped down, but it was not the corpse that they searched for. _I should never have left the dwelling,_ she berated herself as they went. _If only I had been thinking of others, instead of myself…_

Suddenly, Lebryn gave a cry. "There are two of them!" he exclaimed, kneeling in the water. Cobryn and Gúthwyn immediately followed suit. She could see the faint outlines of two bodies, lying a foot or so beneath the surface.

It was hard work pulling them out, as they had been pinned to the ground by a large slab of rock. Together, the three of them just barely managed to lift it up; all the while, she was praying that it would not be the brothers. She kept hoping that they would look up from their labor and see the two of them strolling around Orthanc, arm in arm.

But when they had pushed the rock to the side, Cobryn said quietly, "They are holding hands."

Gúthwyn felt a cold sensation sweep through her gut. Now a feeling of desperation was in their actions as they pulled the two corpses out of the water. When they had at last succeeded, she found herself staring down at Gwollyn and Regwyn's bodies. Even in death, the two of them had not separated.

No one said anything. Gúthwyn reached forward and touched the brothers' faces, relieved that their eyes were both closed. They looked peaceful, as if they were merely sleeping. Just as Beregil and Borogor had been. The lump in her throat hardened painfully, and she had to blink back the tears as she stroked Gwollyn's brown hair. A grim blow this was, to have been so close to seeing them again, only to discover that they were dead.

"How did you know that they did not live?" she asked at last, wrenching her eyes away from the sight of their bodies.

Cobryn looked at her solemnly. "Let us bury them first," he replied. "Then, I will answer all that you want to hear."

She nodded, and then Lebryn pointed to a large gap in the wall. "We can put them outside," he said, his face unusually taut.

The former slaves of Isengard made swift work of laying their comrades to rest. They dug the grave—only one, so that they might remain together—with both their own hands and scattered rocks, making sure they were deep enough so that the Wargs did not find the brothers. At length, they put Gwollyn and Regwyn inside. The entire procedure was undertaken in silence, except for when Cobryn murmured a farewell to them.

"Goodbye," Gúthwyn said, throwing in the last handful of dirt.

For a few minutes, no one spoke. At length, Cobryn stood up, and motioned for them to follow him. He led them to the crumbled remnants of the wall, where they could sit on some of the larger rocks. Once they were settled, he looked at Gúthwyn.

"Much has changed since you have been here," he told her somberly. "I am glad now that you went to Mordor before…" He and Lebryn glanced at each other.

"Cobryn, please," Gúthwyn said, "do not leave me in the dark any longer. What has happened? Where are the others?"

Cobryn sighed. "A few weeks after you left," he began, "Abaudia died in her sleep. She was not ill; it was old age."

Gúthwyn was glad to hear that Abaudia's death had been peaceful. The woman had lived a long life in Isengard, and deserved such an ending. She missed her, but knew that she had gone to a better place—especially with Cobryn and Lebryn hinting at a dark turn for Saruman's slaves.

Lebryn shifted on his rock, and Gúthwyn became aware that he was glancing keenly at Cobryn. The older slave looked at him, and shook his head. "Gúthwyn," he said quietly, "I am going to tell you what happened in the flood first, because it is the easier tale to speak and to hear."

"If you wish," Gúthwyn replied, more than a little confused. She leaned forward as Cobryn began his story.

"We were in our dwelling when we first heard rumor of the Ents' approach. At first, Gwollyn, Regwyn, Lebryn and I went outside, but when they entered the ring we saw them kill a great number of the Dunlendings. We did not want to gamble with whatever mercy the trees may have had, so we retreated back inside our room.

"We had been in there for perhaps half an hour when a great roaring noise met our ears. To us, it sounded like the waters of the Isen, but Saruman had dammed it shortly after you left. We would not have gone out of the dwelling if Regwyn had not said suddenly, 'Please, let us at least see what is going on. I fear what might come without our knowing.'

"So we went outside. And that was when the flood came."

Gúthwyn, who had been listening intently, stiffened.

"It was moving faster than anything we had seen before," Cobryn continued. "The Ents were still roaming throughout Isengard, and there were few options. Lebryn spotted a breach in the wall, and we decided to climb over it so we might escape both dangers." Here, his voice hardened. "Lebryn was helping me up, with Gwollyn and Regwyn coming behind us. Both he and I made it to the top, but the floodwaters came then, and the brothers… they were carried away."

Gúthwyn's shoulders slumped. "I am sorry," she said, and then looked at the two of them. "You have said nothing of Onyveth and Feride."

Lebryn's eyes narrowed, and Cobryn sighed. "Do you remember how the Uruk-hai were multiplying with each month?" he asked.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied. "The army that assailed Helm's Deep was ten thousand strong."

Cobryn nodded grimly. "A year after you left, there were so many of them that they were killing some of the slaves to make room. At first, it was only the old, or those who had injuries."

"How did you two escape?" Gúthwyn questioned curiously.

"By following the advice I gave you," Cobryn answered. "We kept our heads down and did our work, not once drawing attention to ourselves. Both of us had strength aplenty, and some did not even notice that he was missing a hand or I walked with a limp. Or if they did, they overlooked it.

"But soon," he continued, a dark look coming over his features, "Saruman had gathered the full of his army. The forges were empty, as all of the armor had been made. A third of the slaves he did not need anymore. He…" Cobryn's face contorted painfully. "He ordered all the women and children to be killed."

Gúthwyn felt the blood drain out of her face.

"We tried to keep Onyveth and Feride concealed by hiding them in our dwelling, but it only lasted for a few months. The Uruks came for them, and we could do nothing as they were taken to the Warg stables."

Cobryn could barely finish speaking. She watched as he buried his face in his hands, now shaking with a combination of fury and sadness unfathomable. Lebryn looked at him as well, pity in his eyes.

"I am so sorry," Gúthwyn whispered, coming to sit beside Cobryn. Her mind was reeling from how horrible the story had been. The fates of Onyveth and Feride, she felt, would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Placing a hand on Cobryn's shoulder, she was surprised when he glanced up at her and opened his mouth. "Gúthwyn," he began hoarsely, "Feride… I…" He was struggling to get the words out, and she thought with a sinking feeling that she knew what he was going to say. "Feride was my wife!" he at last choked out.

Gúthwyn could barely talk for misery. "When did you marry?" she managed.

"Just five months before she was killed," Cobryn answered, his voice strangled. He put his face in his hands once more. "She was carrying our child!"

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock. And then Cobryn began sobbing, such as she had never seen him do before. He wept like a man who has lost everything in his life; her own heart nearly broke to see him so miserable. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, almost weeping herself as he shook under her touch.

"Cobryn, I…" She could not express in words how sorry she was for him. Helplessly, she looked at Lebryn, and saw that he was at just a loss as she was.

While she comforted Cobryn in whatever way she was able, Gúthwyn felt a terrible rage come over her. It was because of Saruman that all of these people were dead, all of these families torn asunder. But for the White Wizard, Cobryn would have been a happy father, with a wonderful wife at his side. Cheerful, smiling Onyveth would have been living—none of those poor slaves would have been slaughtered. _Now, more than ever, I wish to lay my hands upon his neck,_ she thought furiously.

Eventually, Cobryn's tears subsided. He was still, staring down at the rocks.

"Cobryn?" she asked hesitantly, and he looked at her. Such wretchedness was on his face that she could not long endure it, and spoke instead to the ground. "What are you and Lebryn planning on doing, now that you have been freed?"

He shrugged, sighing heavily. "We have nothing," he replied at last.

"Will you not come to Rohan with me?"

Both Cobryn and Lebryn glanced at her in surprise.

"I mean it," Gúthwyn insisted. "I would not leave you here to find your own way. The Mark has need of good men."

"I have a limp, Gúthwyn," Cobryn said. "Your offer is appreciated, but I am afraid there is no place for me in Rohan."

"Do not be foolish!" she exclaimed impatiently. She was not going to be parted from her friends, not now when they had at last reunited. "You have nowhere to go," she reminded them.

Lebryn seemed as if he thought her idea was a good one, yet still Cobryn hesitated. "I do not want to be a burden," he said. "I am not able to move as swiftly as I used to."

"Cobryn, we are not walking to Rohan," Gúthwyn said, putting both of her hands firmly on his shoulders. "We have horses. I am not taking no for an answer."

He looked into her eyes for a long time, but she refused to relent, and at length he sighed. "Are you sure of this?" he wanted to know.

"Absolutely," she replied. Getting to her feet, she offered him a hand. "We must speak to my uncle first, though I see no reason for him to deny the request."

Cobryn took her hand and allowed her to pull him up. Lebryn hopped off of the rocks, and together the three of them started making their way back to the gate. "Be courteous to my brother especially," she cautioned them. "Éomer is a proud man, and he is quick to voice his displeasure. He will be watching you carefully, all the more so because you are in my company."

"In that case, Cobryn," Lebryn said, a faint trace of a grin on his features, "I suppose I should leave the negotiating to you and Gúthwyn."

Cobryn nodded absently, but she could see his thoughts were not with the discussion. Gúthwyn let him be, knowing that it would be best for him to come to terms with his grief. She and Lebryn did not speak much for the rest of the way, only exchanging the briefest of awkward glances.

When they returned, the others were still there, talking amongst themselves. As Gúthwyn climbed onto the rocks, Legolas stood. "Did you find them?" he asked quietly, looking between Cobryn's downtrodden face and Lebryn's weary one.

Gúthwyn nodded, unable to say anything. Her hands twitched nervously as Legolas drew nearer. "I am sorry," the Elf murmured, lowering his gaze.

At that moment, the sound of thundering hooves met their ears.

"Théoden approaches," Aragorn said, standing up and taking the pipe from his mouth. "We should meet him." He began picking his way down from the pile; Merry, Pippin, and Gimli followed suit. Legolas showed signs of wanting to wait, and so Gúthwyn turned to Cobryn and Lebryn.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Lebryn nodded, and went to stand beside Legolas. Yet Cobryn merely stood there, gazing out at the waters. His face was filled with silent misery.

"Cobryn?" she inquired softly, approaching him slowly. He did not move, not even when she put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Will you be all right, my friend?"

For a long time, he did not respond. A full minute passed before he sighed, and nodded.

"Come," Gúthwyn said, and they turned away from the cold finger of Orthanc.


	4. A Cornered Beast

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Four:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Those of you who are huge fans of the book will notice that I took much of the dialogue from The Two Towers—this is because the movie does not cover the journey between Helm's Deep and Isengard at all, so it was necessary. I tend to not like copying the books, but there you have it. This chapter actually uses a lot of book dialogue, and I absolutely despise it, though there is nothing I can do.

**Chapter Four**

Gúthwyn kept a comforting hand on Cobryn's arm as they made their way off of the rocks. She could only imagine the grief he was experiencing, and was determined to alleviate his sadness in any way possible. After all he had sacrificed for her, it was the least she could do. He did not say anything, but looked at her once or twice with gratitude in his eyes.

As they stepped off of the rocks, Théoden and his men came into view, halting when they saw the group. Gúthwyn glanced up and saw her brother's astonished face twist into a frown as he looked upon her and Cobryn. She became all too aware that she still had her hand on his arm.

"Who might you two be?" Éomer asked, before anyone could speak a word.

Everyone's eyes were on Cobryn as he pulled away from Gúthwyn and gave a low bow. "My name is Cobryn, my lord," he said, addressing Éomer. She could tell that he had identified her brother instantly. "My companion is Lebryn."

Théoden moved forward. "What are you doing in Isengard?" he inquired, looking back and forth between them and Gúthwyn.

"We are slaves, my lord," Cobryn replied with another bow. All of his previous mood seemed to have disappeared, and he was playing the role of a humble servant perfectly. _He will do well in court,_ Gúthwyn thought.

"_Were_ slaves," Lebryn could not resist correcting him.

"They were searching for their friends," Aragorn explained. Both Merry and Pippin nodded in agreement.

Éomer's keen eyes swept over the group. "You did not find them?" he asked.

Gúthwyn winced. "They lie buried, not too far from here," she told him.

Her brother looked abashed. "I am sorry," he muttered, nodding his head at Lebryn and Cobryn. "I did not know."

Eager to get off of the topic of Gwollyn and Regwyn's deaths, Gúthwyn turned to Théoden. "Please, uncle," she said, praying that she had not given her friends an empty offer, "will you let Cobryn and Lebryn return to Rohan with us?"

Théoden hesitated. She saw his gaze move over the stump of Lebryn's right arm. Éomer, too, was looking them over thoroughly. "What type of service can they offer?" her brother asked, neither kindly nor bluntly.

Cobryn bowed. "Lebryn is a formidable warrior," he began, "despite only having one arm. He is strong and swift."

"And yourself?" Théoden questioned. Behind the king, all of the guards were watching curiously. Anxiously, she scanned their faces, but did not see any signs of disapproval. Yet they often did not show emotion, so she was unable to truly tell what they were thinking.

"My fighting days, I fear, are passing me by," Cobryn said grimly. "My leg pains me often, and I cannot run, nor move at a fast pace."

Gúthwyn shot him a worried look, but he continued. "Crippled I may be, yet I will do anything it is you ask of me. Some say I am intelligent. Others"—he glanced at Gúthwyn—"say I would make a fair scribe. If you have no need of these things, then at the very least I can do labor, and you will be hard pressed to find a more experienced worker."

"Please, Théoden," Gúthwyn added. "They have nowhere to go, and I would not abandon my friends so shortly after our reunion."

Both her uncle and her brother were silent. Gúthwyn waited for a word from either of them, shifting anxiously on her feet. Adding to her nervousness was Legolas, who had been watching her and Cobryn.

At length, Théoden nodded. "You may ride with us," he told Cobryn and Lebryn, "to Edoras. There, something will be found for you to do."

"Thank you, my lord," Cobryn replied, bowing for the fourth time in the past five minutes. "You are most gracious."

_Yes, he will do very well in court,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself.

Near her, Lebryn inclined her head, and said gruffly, "Thank you, as well."

Before Gúthwyn had a chance to voice her gratitude, Gandalf spoke up. He had been watching the affairs quietly, but now he said, "Time is pressing! Treebeard and I have had some interesting discussions, and made a few plans; and we have all had some much-needed rest. Now we must be going on again."

_Saruman!_ Gúthwyn thought, a thrill of adrenaline running through her. She could not deny that it would give her much pleasure to see the wizard trapped in his tower, helpless as the slaves had been under his command. And as Aragorn's lips curled into a small smile, she knew that he was just as ready to confront Saruman as she.

"We will have to be wary of the road," Gamling cautioned, "for it is all underwater."

Though Cobryn and Lebryn had not known that the king was planning on seeing Saruman, both of their eyebrows now shot up at this—only those who had business with the wizard went down the road to Orthanc.

"Aye," Théoden said, "but I will go upon it, nonetheless."

"Am I to ride with you, my lord?" Gúthwyn asked immediately.

Her uncle sighed, but grudgingly said, "You have come this far."

A wide smile spread across her face as Gandalf then spoke. "I hope you companions have all rested, too, and refreshed yourselves?"

His question was directed towards the Three Hunters and the Hobbits. Merry nodded, and said, "We have. But our discussions began and ended in smoke."

Gúthwyn did not know what he meant by that, as she had not been there for most of the conversation.

"Still," Merry continued, "we feel less ill-disposed towards Saruman than we did."

Her hands curled into fists. After Cobryn and Lebryn's tale, she was not the least inclined to be lenient with him. Neither, it seemed, was Gandalf.

"Do you indeed?" he asked, puzzled. "Well, I do not. I now have a last task to do before I go: I must pay Saruman a farewell visit."

A grin came over Gúthwyn's face then, but when she looked at Cobryn she saw that his expression had not changed.

"Dangerous," the wizard continued, "and probably useless; but it must be done. Those of you who wish may come with me—but beware! And do not jest! This is not the time for it."

"Unless killing him is a jest," Lebryn growled, "then I shall remain quiet."

Gandalf shot him a piercing glance. "You speak of that which you know little," he reprimanded the former slave sternly. "Foolish is he who underestimates the power of Saruman."

"Still," Cobryn interjected, his tone level, "both of us would go with you, if it is permitted: He has done us many a grievance, and you have given us hope of seeing some of them amended."

"I will come," Gimli said then, staring darkly at Orthanc. "I wish to see him and learn if he really looks like you."

His words made Gúthwyn wonder. She had seen both of the wizards, and had to admit that while, on first glance, they appeared similar, there were in fact more differences between the two. It was mainly in the face: Saruman's was colder, and harsher, than Gandalf's. And of course, the robes—one was interwoven with many colors, while the other was a pure white.

"And how will you learn that, Master Dwarf?" Gandalf returned, a grim smile on his lips. "Saruman could look like me in your eyes, if it suited his purpose with you. And are you yet wise enough to detect all of his counterfeits?"

Gúthwyn doubted it was so. The White Wizard was cunning, full of deceit and trickery. She could not long endure even a glance from him, and had failed in many an attempt.

"Well, we shall see," Gandalf sighed, "perhaps. He may be shy of showing himself before many different eyes together."

For a moment, Gúthwyn wondered if she and Gandalf were thinking of the same wizard. She never would have used the word "shy" to describe Saruman. Both Cobryn and Lebryn also looked puzzled at the term.

"But I have ordered all the Ents to remove themselves from sight," Gandalf said, "so perhaps we shall persuade him to come out."

Pippin appeared just as confused as she, Cobryn, and Lebryn were. "What's the danger?" he inquired, gazing at the tower in wonder. "Will he shoot at us, and pour fire from the windows; or can he put a spell on us from a distance?"

"The last is more likely, if you ride to his door with a light heart," Gandalf answered. Gúthwyn's mind flashed back to a dream she had had, shortly after Cobryn had pulled her from the cage, in which Saruman had fixed her to the floor so that she could not move. _But he would not be able to do such a thing in reality,_ she tried to convince herself; all the same, she shivered.

One more caution did Gandalf have to add. "But there is no knowing what he can do, or may choose to try. A wild beast cornered is not safe to approach. And Saruman has powers you do not guess. Beware of his voice!"

"I will not make the same mistake of listening to him twice," Théoden vowed, his face twisted in anger. "I wonder if we shall see that wretched councilor of mine."

"Gríma would be risking his foul limbs if he came into the open," Éomer snarled. Both Cobryn and Lebryn started at the mention of the Serpent.

"Now let us go!" Théoden cried. "I would not have us waste time."

"Wait!" Pippin exclaimed. "There are more people than there are horses. Are you to leave Merry and I behind? For we should like to come along."

"Pippin, you can come with me," Aragorn replied, gesturing to Brego. "You will not be left out of these matters, especially as you were his captives once."

"Firefoot will be able to bear the burden of another," Éomer added, looking at Merry.

"I can take Lebryn," Gamling decided, after assessing the young man's size. Lebryn seemed surprised at the guard's kindness.

"Cobryn, you can go with me," Gúthwyn said, smiling at her friend. He thanked her quietly.

Éomer's eyes narrowed at this, but even though Théoden shifted uncomfortably no one disputed her.

"So it is settled," Gimli declared, who himself would be riding behind Legolas on Arod. "What a strange group of people we shall look!"

"Strange," Gandalf conceded, "although Saruman will not dare to think us fools."

With that, they all mounted their horses. Cobryn offered his hands to Gúthwyn, in order to help her onto Heorot, but she shook her head. "It is I who should be aiding you," she told him, sitting astride Heorot. She leaned down and held her own hand out to him.

He accepted the gesture, though not without a word. "I am crippled," he said, "yet I do not wish to be treated as such."

Gúthwyn nodded, not liking the idea, but knowing fully well that she had been as stubborn numerous times in her life. "Then I shall push you off of Heorot," she teased, keeping light laughter in her threat, "and allow you to get back on yourself."

Cobryn settled himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Do not, I beg of you," he answered. "It has been long since I rode a horse, and I doubt I could mount one."

"We will change that," Gúthwyn vowed, though her heart was no longer in the jest. She was all too aware of Cobryn's hands on her stomach—they were there so he would not slide off of the horse, but memories of Haldor were pressing on the corners of her mind. Her fists, clenched around Heorot's reins, trembled.

"Is everyone ready?" Théoden asked, surveying the group. Assorted nods and grunts of acquiescence gave him his answer.

Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw Éomer navigate Firefoot closer to her. A faint smile came over her face as she looked at him. He was clearly not happy about having his sister riding with a man he had never met before. Nothing was said to either her or Cobryn, but she felt the arms wrapped around her stomach loosen their hold, and knew that Cobryn was equally aware of her brother's disapproval.

Yet now was not the time to dwell on such things. Gandalf began leading them towards a large breach in the wall, one that would allow the entire company to pass through into Isengard. As they entered the ring, the water sloshed around the horses' legs, and Gúthwyn wondered with a chill how many more bodies lay beneath the murky surface. She prayed that Heorot would not accidentally stumble over a corpse.

They picked their way over to the main road, and started following it towards Orthanc. Gandalf was at the head of the group, Théoden at his side, with Aragorn and Legolas just behind them. She, Éomer, Gamling, and the rest of the guards brought up the rear. As they went, she found herself staring at what looked like a gigantic tree standing before the stairs into Orthanc. _Is this one of the Ents?_ she wondered.

It must have been, for it moved, and Gúthwyn saw that it had two eyes. She gaped at them, as they were like nothing she had ever seen. They were brown, with an odd green light emanating from them. They were strange, and she could not even begin to describe the vast years lying within them, nor the way they also seemed to be fresh as a flower that has just sprung from the earth.

While she was gaping, the Ent shifted even more, and addressed Gandalf. "Young Master Gandalf," he murmured, his voice slow and sonorous. A beard of tangled twigs and leaves quivered as he spoke. "I am glad you have come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master. But there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."

Gúthwyn tore her eyes away from whom she now perceived to be Treebeard, and glanced up at the ebony tower. She could see no sign of movement from any of the windows, and there was no one on the roof, where the slaves had never been allowed to go. _Come out,_ she urged the wizard impatiently. _Do not be a coward._

"Be careful," Gandalf cautioned. "Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous."

"Well, let us just have his head and be done with it," Gimli suggested, echoing Lebryn's earlier sentiments.

Shaking his head, Gandalf replied, "No. We need him alive. We need him to talk."

At that moment, a voice resounded throughout the ring, though it was soft in tone. Gúthwyn started, recognizing it even after many years' absence from Isengard. Saruman was speaking to them, each word positively dripping in feigned pleasure at their appearance.

"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterwards."

Gúthwyn craned her neck, trying to see the White Wizard, but just then a figure emerged on top of Orthanc. Her breath caught in her throat. Saruman, even in the throes of certain ruin, stood imperialistically over them all, gazing down with piercing eyes. He held his ebony staff before him, but at the moment did not seem particularly inclined to use it. Rather, his voice was kind, as though he truly desired to make amends with her uncle.

"Can we not take counsel," Saruman began, smiling coldly down at the king, "together as we once did, my old friend?"

Gúthwyn's eyes flashed. _How dare he speak to Théoden that way?_ she thought furiously. _After all of the people he was killed in the Westfold, after the children without their fathers, and mothers without their sons or husbands?_

"Can we not have peace, you and I?" Saruman pressed, until Gúthwyn was actually shaking in rage. Cobryn's hands tightened on her warningly.

"Beware," he whispered. "His enchantments are laid bare to those he does not speak to, but it is no good to say anything."

Gúthwyn looked at the king, waiting for him to respond. She could not see his face, but he appeared to be lost in thought. Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged glances.

At length, Théoden spoke, and his words were like feet dredging their way through thick mud. "We shall have peace," he said slowly, and Gúthwyn felt her heart drop. "We shall have peace," her uncle continued, "when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged!"

Bitterness and hatred poured from his speech such as Gúthwyn had never heard before. Even Saruman seemed taken aback by it: His eyes narrowed, and he clutched his staff tighter.

"When you hang from a gibbet," Théoden snapped, "for the sport of your own crows, then we shall have peace!"

"Gibbets and crows?" Saruman cried, and Gúthwyn shuddered to hear the change in his voice. No longer was it pleasant and kindly. Instead, it was filled with malice, each word hissed as a snake spits out its venom. "Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor amongst the dogs?"

At his words, Gúthwyn felt a terrible rage come over her. Unable to restrain herself, she nudged Heorot forward. "And what is the stronghold of Saruman now, with his slaves gone and his army defeated by the very House of Eorl that you ignorantly mock?" she demanded, glaring up at the wizard. Théoden and Éomer's heads whipped around to look at her.

For the first time, Saruman noticed that she was there. His eyes widened. "So, Gúthwyn of Rohan," he breathed, his lips curling into a smile. "Mordor has not made you less proud or foolish, I see. Have you not learned to respect your superiors?"

Cobryn's hold on her tightened considerably, but she ignored it. "I have no respect for you," she spat.

Saruman's face was not remotely amused anymore. "I would throw you in the cage again for your insolence," he hissed, "and I may, should you overstep your bounds!"

Gúthwyn blanched, but hastily overcame her emotions. "You hold no sway over me, Saruman!" she called, staring determinedly at the wizard. "You cannot harm me anymore, and I have seen worse in this world than you. So do not flatter yourself in thinking that I will listen to your empty threats!"

"Empty threats?" Saruman repeated. "So the slave seeks to disobey her master! Try, if you will, and I shall have you screaming for mercy, just as you did in the long dark hours of your imprisonment!"

He could not have humiliated her more if he had tried. All of the blood rushed to her face, and she very nearly stopped breathing. In front of the entire company, in front of her family, in front of Haldor—no, Legolas, he had exposed her shame and disgrace. A familiar nausea welled up within her.

"How _dare_ you speak to her that way?" Éomer snarled. Miserably, embarrassed beyond belief, Gúthwyn glanced at him and saw that his face was red with fury. Merry was cringing from it. "She is not yours to do with as you will!"

"Restrain your crude tongue, Éomer son of Éomund," Saruman said. "Like brother, like sister! Neither of you have the wit to challenge me."

"Be quiet, Saruman!" Gandalf barked. "Your behavior is spiteful and petty."

The color was still burning Gúthwyn's cheeks as Saruman turned to his new opponent. "What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame?" he asked scornfully. "Let me guess: The Key of Orthanc. Or perhaps the Keys of Barad-dûr itself, along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the Five Wizards!"

"Your treachery has already cost many lives," Gandalf replied. "Thousands more are at risk. But you can save them, Saruman. You were deep in the Enemy's counsel."

Saruman laughed, as one who at last sees the unraveling of a joke. "So you have come here for information," he said, the thin smile on his face not reaching his eyes. "I have some for you."

And then he withdrew something from the folds of his robes and held it aloft. Gúthwyn stared at it. The thing was a round ball, with no bumps or marks on its smooth surface, and utterly black. But as she gazed at it, it seemed to glow with a strange fire. She had never seen this object before.

Yet she could tell by the way Gandalf stiffened that this globe was important. Saruman's eyes were blazing with triumph as he said, "Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth. Something that you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it."

The wizard's words made no sense to Gúthwyn. In fact, with the exception of Aragorn and Gandalf, none of the company seemed to have the slightest clue as to what Saruman spoke of.

"Even now," Saruman continued, lowering the ball, "he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon." A cruel light was in his eyes as he crowed, "You are all going to die!"

Some of the Riders shifted uneasily at this, though Gandalf now approached the base of Orthanc. His gaze was calm; Saruman's speech clearly had no effect on him.

"But you know this, do you not, Gandalf?" Saruman asked, and then his eyes moved over to Aragorn. "You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king."

Like Gandalf, Aragorn remained silent. The wind whipped his dark hair around him, making his still frame look even sterner than before.

"Gandalf," Saruman sneered, "does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him, those he professes to love." The next thing he said was a calculating blow to their hearts. "Tell me," he asked softly, "what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have sent him on can only lead him to death."

Gimli growled. "I have heard enough!" He whispered something to Legolas; Gúthwyn did not catch it, but she thought she heard the Dwarf say "shoot."

"No," Gandalf said, making a motion with his hand. "Come down, Saruman, and your life will be spared."

Gúthwyn gaped at Gandalf. How could he offer the traitorous wizard freedom, after all the harm he had brought to Rohan and the helpless slaves under his iron rule? What had bewitched him to do so?

"Save your pity and your mercy," Saruman spat, raising his staff. "I have no use for it!"

With that, a great ball of fire erupted from the end of the long staff, shooting down towards Gandalf before the others could do anything. In less than a second, both Gandalf and Shadowfax were engulfed in flames.

_No!_ Gúthwyn thought in a panic. The faces of the others were horrorstruck.

Yet even in the moment of their fear, the fire was extinguished. Gandalf reappeared, with not a single burn marring his face. Saruman's eyes widened, and Gúthwyn felt as if the tables had turned. She could not explain why, but it was as if the White Wizard had lost a contest of some sorts—which had nothing to do with the flames.

"Saruman, your staff is broken," Gandalf decreed, raising his own. The others watched in shock as the wood in Saruman's hands splintered and shattered, raining down in fragments upon the stairs.

Then, something else caught Gúthwyn's attention. Another person had come out onto the roof, standing just behind Saruman. Her blood boiled as she realized it was Gríma Wormtongue, squinting at them with pale eyes.

Théoden started. "Gríma, you need not follow him," he said, his voice gentle. At those words, Gúthwyn actually stared at her uncle, wondering if he had gone mad. "You were not always as you are. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down."

Cobryn's grip on her tightened, and Gúthwyn privately thought to herself that if the Serpent paid heed to Théoden's advice, she would slaughter him for that which he had done to Chalibeth. He did not deserve freedom—he deserved a long, painful death.

"A man of Rohan?" Saruman repeated, snorting. Gríma looked down at his feet. "That is nothing to be proud of. The victory at Helm's Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse-master. You are a lesser son of greater sires."

Gúthwyn's eyes flared as the wizard mocked her uncle. Théoden had his faults, and she still had not forgotten all that Haldor had whispered to her in his bed, but Saruman had to right to speak that way of her family. Her nails dug painfully into her hands.

"Gríma, come down," Théoden urged the Serpent, ignoring the words of the man's master. "Be free of him."

"Free?" Saruman chuckled. "He will never be free." As quick as a flash, he turned and dealt Gríma a blow across the face. "Get down, cur!" he snapped. Gúthwyn watched in disgust as Wormtongue crumpled to the ground, utterly helpless against the wizard. _This is pathetic,_ she thought.

"Saruman!" Gandalf called. "You were deep in the Enemy's counsel. Tell us what you know!"

All eyes were fixed on the fallen wizard. "You withdraw your guard," he breathed, "and I will tell you where your doom will be decided. I will not be held prisoner here."

Suddenly, he gasped, and his mouth formed a small "o." Gríma appeared behind him, his expression murderous. To their astonishment, Saruman began pitching forward. Something bright and shiny gleamed in the afternoon sun: A dagger. Wormtongue had leaped up and stabbed the wizard in the back, taking them all at unawares.

As Saruman teetered on the edge of Orthanc, Legolas strung up his bow and shot. The arrow flew up and pierced Gríma in the shoulder. Gúthwyn's lips stretched in a grim smile as the Serpent gasped, choking and spluttering on the last moments of his life. He let go of Saruman, falling back onto the ground. And then, something remarkable happened, something that she had never imagined in her wildest dreams.

Saruman tumbled forwards, his feet losing their precious hold on the roof of Orthanc. His still body fell off of the tower, and with a sickening _splat_ he was impaled upon a spiked wheel that had been in the water. Gúthwyn's eyes widened as a black spire pushed through his chest. Even as they all stared at the wizard in shock, the wheel began turning, so that Saruman was slowly rotated underneath the waters.

And so passed Saruman the White, former head of the Istari, in an ending that was as cowardly as his recent dealings. His spirit never returned again to Middle-earth, not as a shadow on the fringes of anyone's mind, nor as a hissing menace in the dark corners of the world. With him went his servant, Gríma son of Gálmód, and no one mourned his death.

"Send word to our allies," Gandalf spoke then, looking at Théoden, "and to every corner of Middle-earth that still stands free. The Enemy moves against us. We need to know where he will strike."

"The filth of Saruman," Treebeard murmured—Gúthwyn gave a start, for she had forgotten that he was there—"is washing away." He did not appear to have a care for whatever was happening out East, and she supposed that the trials and wars of men troubled him little. "Trees will come back to live here; young trees, wild trees."

As the Ent talked, Gúthwyn watched Pippin lean over and gaze at something in the water. With a small _splash_ he jumped off, sloshing towards whatever had captured his interest.

"Pippin!" Aragorn called, but the Halfling had already stooped to pick the thing up. When he stood, he held in his hands the queer object that Saruman had gazed into.

"Bless my bark!" Treebeard exclaimed. Gandalf hastily moved Shadowfax over to the Hobbit, who was standing as if transfixed by the globe.

"Peregrin Took!" he said, holding out his hand. "I will take that, my lad. Quickly now!"

Without a word, Pippin gave it to him, but Gúthwyn saw a strange look pass over his face—resentment? Annoyance?

Gandalf swiftly wrapped the ball in his robe, looking down at the Halfling keenly for a moment before turning to the others. A great weariness seemed to have laid itself upon him. "Well, let us depart," he said. "We have done all that can be done here."

"So it is farewell, then, Master Gandalf," Treebeard replied.

"As it must be," Gandalf said, and they parted.


	5. Late Night Discussions

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Five:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Those of you who are huge fans of the book will notice that I took much of the dialogue from The Two Towers—this is because the movie does not cover the journey between Helm's Deep and Isengard at all, so it was necessary. I tend to not like copying the books, but there you have it.

**Chapter Five**

Night was lying heavily over the plains when the Riders began slowing, looking to find a place to rest until morning. Gúthwyn pulled gradually on Heorot's reins, relieved at the prospect of sleep: It had been a long day. Close to ten hours had passed since their confrontation with Saruman, but his words were still echoing cruelly in her head. Each time she thought of how he had humiliated her, exposing all her weakness to the others, her face flushed in shame.

Neither she nor Cobryn had said much throughout the ride. She could not tell if was still absorbed in his grief, or if his mind had turned to other things.

_He is going to be sore tonight,_ she thought. When she had arrived at Isengard, he had already been there for three years. Now, a decade had passed since his capture—over ten years since the last time he had ridden. Glancing over at Lebryn, who was on Gamling's horse, she saw him wince in pain as the animal jolted.

Soon, they found a place that was somewhat sheltered by gently sloping hills, and halted there for the night. Gúthwyn lightly dismounted Heorot, and Cobryn slid off far less gracefully after her.

Lebryn gave a muttered thanks to Gamling and stumbled over to them. "Never again," he panted, wiping his hair from his dark eyes. "I swear…"

Cobryn grunted in response.

"Now, now," Gúthwyn said, smiling. "It is not that bad."

"Maybe not for one who grew up in the stables," Lebryn retorted. She rolled her eyes.

"Move along," she told them, taking their arms and starting to pull them over to where the other men were setting up camp. "If it pains you as much as you say, then you should get some rest for tomorrow."

They followed her, stiff and bandy-legged. Cobryn looked all the more ridiculous, as he had a limp in addition to sore thighs. Some of the guards glanced up as they came over, and unsuccessfully tried to cover up their grins. Having learned to ride as soon as they could walk, they could not remember experiencing such discomfort as her friends were now going through.

Gúthwyn shot a pointed look at Gamling, and he called out, "No offense meant, my lady."

She smiled. "I had hoped not."

Meanwhile, Cobryn and Lebryn found a small space a little ways away from the others, and collapsed to the ground without a word. Immediately, Gúthwyn realized that they did not have blankets, or a pallet.

"Wait a moment," she said, and went back to Heorot. On her way, she passed Aragorn.

"How are they holding up?" he asked quietly, glancing at Cobryn and Lebryn. They had not moved since she left.

She shrugged. "They will soon get used to it. I do not worry, though I also do not envy them their pain." A brief smile came over her face as Lebryn finally stirred, groaning with each motion.

Aragorn looked at her. "You did them a kind service," he said, inclining his head.

"They are wonderful men," Gúthwyn replied. "I could do much more, and still not repay the debt I owe them."

The Ranger opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment someone called his name. Turning, they saw Legolas approach them. "Gandalf wishes to speak with you," he said.

"Thank you," Aragorn replied, and left. Gúthwyn's heart hammered in her chest as Legolas looked at her.

"Are your friends doing well?" he asked. A shudder ran through her as his blue eyes met hers.

"Y-Yes," she answered shakily, clenching and unclenching her fists. "E-Excuse me."

Hastily Gúthwyn walked away, her cheeks flaming from the encounter. She could only begin to imagine how weak he must have thought her, especially after what Saruman had said. Her hands trembled as she worked to unsaddle Heorot, making such a simple task far more difficult than it should have been.

When at last the saddle was removed, she laid it on the ground and picked up Borogor's pack. Rummaging through it, she found her blanket and the Elven cloak. A quick glance around showed her that Legolas had mercifully returned to his pallet. Sighing in relief, she crossed over to where Cobryn and Lebryn were lying. Cobryn had propped himself up against a rock, but Lebryn still had not moved.

"Here," she said, handing the cloak to Cobryn and the blanket to Lebryn. "I am sorry I do not have anything better."

Lebryn took the blanket and draped it haphazardly over himself, muttering bleary thanks, but Cobryn examined the cloak closely. "Where did you get this?" he asked, looking at the brooch.

"In Lothlórien, from the Lady Galadriel," she replied.

His eyes widened. "How did you manage to get there?" When she opened her mouth, he shook his head. "On second thought, do not answer that right away. First, tell me what happened after you left—did you truly go to Mordor? If so, how is it possible that you are here with us now?"

Gúthwyn winced. But as Lebryn propped himself up on his elbows, clearly ready to listen, she knew she could not reasonably withhold the tale from them. So in a low voice, careful of the other men near them who were trying to fall asleep, she gave them the same abridged version that she had told her family. Yet out of courtesy to Cobryn, she said nothing about Hammel and Haiweth, thinking that they might remind him of Feride's unborn child. Thankfully, neither of her friends pressed the topic of Haldor, nor what her assignment had been for Sauron. Even Lebryn seemed to sense that the subjects were sensitive.

When she finished, they both stared at her. "You are either extremely lucky," Cobryn breathed, "or the Valar themselves are protecting you."

Gúthwyn looked down at her feet. She was not truly lucky, but she could not deny that she had overcome immeasurable odds to be alive today. "Perhaps it is my fate," she said dully. _Perhaps the Valar have something worse in store for me._

Glancing back up, she saw Lebryn yawning. "You should get some rest," she told him. "We have a few more days of riding ahead of us."

Lebryn let out one last groan before becoming limp, his body sprawled carelessly over the ground. She smiled, then turned to Cobryn. "What about you?" she inquired.

"I am sore," he replied. "Not tired." Wrapping her cloak tighter around his shoulders, he looked up into the sky. Gúthwyn followed his gaze, and saw that the stars were out; brighter than all other things they shone, beautiful in the quiet evening.

"Do you remember when we saw these same constellations in Isengard?" she asked, sighing deeply and breathing in the fresh air.

He nodded, his face still upturned towards the heavens. "Aye," he said, a small smile coming over his face. "The night before you left."

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, and frowned. She did not want to think about the Black Land, of Beregil's hand-dug grave, of Borogor's strong arms, of Hammel and Haiweth, or of Haldor's cruel eyes pinning her to his bed.

"Are you all right?" Cobryn questioned, jolting her out of her thoughts. Gúthwyn realized that she was trembling slightly.

"Yes," she answered unsteadily. "I-I am fine."

He did not look as though he believed her, but knew her pride too well to pursue the issue. For a long time, they sat together in silence, their minds wandering to memories of the past.

When Cobryn at last spoke, his words were heavy, and a lump formed in her throat as she heard them. "When we married," he murmured, twisting his hands, "she was so happy… Have you ever seen her smile?"

Gúthwyn had seen a faint grin on Feride's face, once or twice, but nothing that matched what she would have had with Cobryn. "No," she replied softly.

"She was the most beautiful woman in the world," he whispered. "I believed in miracles then. I thought the Valar were watching over the two of us."

Gúthwyn was struggling to fight the tears that were welling up in her eyes. "I wish I could have seen you and her," she said. "I-I am so sorry."

He put his face in his hands. "You should get some sleep," he muttered. "It would not be good for me to keep you up."

She could tell from his voice that he needed some time alone. So she stood up, but before she left she put a firm hand on his shoulder. "If you ever want someone to talk to," she said, "I will always listen to what you have to say."

Cobryn looked at her, a mixture of mild surprise and gratitude on his face. "Thank you," he responded. "And thank you for the cloak."

Smiling, Gúthwyn said gently, "If there is anything else you desire, let me know." As she turned away, she hoped that his spirits would be lifted soon. He deserved far more than life had given him—just as Borogor.

Her own mood now subdued, she walked back through the silent camp and located her things. Both Chalibeth and Borogor's cloaks she adorned, hugging herself tightly against the chill that sought to seep into her bones. Scanning the camp for Éomer, she was puzzled to see that he was sitting up.

Carefully, she made her way over to him. "Does sleep evade you tonight, brother?" she asked when she came close enough, placing her pallet near his.

Éomer glanced at her, his dark eyes glittering in the moonlight. "I am not the only one awake," he answered. "It has been well over an hour since I thought you would be sleeping."

"I was talking to Cobryn," she said.

"I know _that_," Éomer replied, and there was a strange look in his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" Gúthwyn inquired, unsure of what was troubling him.

He sighed, and for a long time did not say anything. Finally, he said, "I have been watching the two of you. When I first saw him, your hand was on his arm. Then you spend more than an hour talking with him at night, sitting closer to him than most would consider proper. Do you love him?"

The question was so unexpected that Gúthwyn merely stared at him for a few seconds. When she connected the words to their meaning, she could not speak. It was not Cobryn that she now thought of, but Borogor. A hot liquid burned in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears from overflowing. How foolish, how _stupid_, how _blind_ could she have possibly been?

"Gúthwyn?"

Her brother's voice drew her back to the present, away from the sight of Borogor's body lying on the carpets of Ithilien. "No," she said at last, her words laden with grief. "It is not him to whom my heart is turned."

Too late, she realized what her words had implied. Éomer stiffened, and his gaze was so piercing that she could not long endure it. "Whom, then, do you love?" he wanted to know, though his voice was gentle rather than demanding.

"Éomer, please," she whispered. A sudden need to curl up and leave her tormented thoughts was coming over her. "I… please, do not ask me of him now."

He was silent for a minute. "As you wish," he said at length, yet his eyes still searched hers for answers.

"Thank you," she murmured wearily. The memory of Borogor's face hanging heavily over her heart, she laid herself upon the ground. _I love you,_ she thought, and her world turned dark.

* * *

The sound of thundering hooves, galloping across the plain at swift speeds, was making Gúthwyn exceedingly happy. For most of the day they had been riding, and now that Edoras was in sight the king had picked up the pace. She herself was glad to be home, as Éowyn and Tun would be there. So she pushed Heorot faster, eager to see them again. She had a great tale to tell Éowyn, that was for sure.

"Do you see the Golden Hall?" Gúthwyn now asked Cobryn, turning her head for a brief instant to look at him. He was staring at Edoras in awe, even though as a Gondorian of the White City he had seen far larger.

"Yes," he replied, nearly shouting over the wind that was pounding in their ears. "Is that where you grew up?"

Gúthwyn nodded happily, a broad grin stretching over her face. There was no place in all of Middle-earth, she thought, that could possibly make her happier. And as the Riders drew closer to it, the shouts of her people joyously greeting their king echoed in her ears and widened her smile.

Soon they had ridden in through the gates, and were heavily cheered by crowds of Rohirrim lining the streets. The victory at Helm's Deep had brought back a hope that had deserted them for many years. Now, they sang and cried out, reveling in the glorious return of the king and his guard. Many of them stared in wonder at the Hobbits, Cobryn, and Lebryn. She could not help noticing that the girls were giggling with each look Lebryn gave them.

They pulled up before the Golden Hall, and immediately stableboys rushed out to take their horses. Gúthwyn dismounted, followed by Cobryn. The boy who had gripped the reins of Heorot looked at her friend curiously. She smiled at him, but did not say anything in explanation.

Éowyn was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, beautiful in a white gown that had a brown brocade over her torso. Rather impatiently, Gúthwyn watched as she spoke briefly to Théoden and Éomer. Then, when they had gone inside Meduseld, her sister's eyes moved beyond them to where she was standing beside Cobryn and Lebryn. They narrowed in confusion.

Taking that as her cue to introduce her friends, Gúthwyn motioned to them to come with her and raced up the stairs. As she did so, one of the guards came out of the Golden Hall: Tun. He smiled to see her, though his eyes widened as he looked upon Cobryn and Lebryn.

Remembering what she had been about to do, she turned to Éowyn.

"Welcome back," her sister said happily. "It has been dull without you and Éomer here."

Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or did she detect a trace of resentment in Éowyn's words? "Aye," she replied, banishing the unwelcome thoughts. "But I will tell you the tale in full of what we did, so that your time here be not uninteresting."

"Good," Éowyn said. "Now, who are these men?"

Gúthwyn smiled. "Éowyn, sister, I would like you to meet Cobryn and Lebryn." She pointed out both of her friends. Cobryn gave a bow, while Lebryn merely inclined his head. "I knew them in Isengard."

Éowyn covered up her surprise well, though Gúthwyn was well aware that she would be questioned mercilessly later on about them. "I am delighted to meet you both," she told them, and her words were not spoken falsely.

"I have heard many wonderful things about you, my lady," Cobryn said. "Gúthwyn said much about you."

"I am sure she exaggerated," Éowyn said, smiling slightly. "It is a pleasure…" Her voice trailed off then; her eyes were no longer on them, but on some point over their shoulders. Gúthwyn did not have to turn to know that Aragorn was coming up the stairs.

"Come," she said to her friends, feeling rather uncomfortable. "There is someone else I want you to meet."

They nodded, and she brought them over to where Tun was standing. "How is your arm?" she asked immediately, gesturing at the sling.

"It is doing much better, thank you," he replied, though his eyes were on Cobryn and Lebryn, an unspoken inquiry in them.

Gúthwyn made the introductions again, and the men shook hands.

"I see we all have our injuries," Cobryn commented, and while Tun smiled, Gúthwyn noticed that his lips were pressed thinly together.

"Gúthwyn, may I speak with you for a moment?" he asked then, and she nodded.

"Let me just make sure Cobryn and Lebryn are settled," she replied. Then she turned to the two of them. "My sister can tell you where to put your things. She is a better host than I, I fear. But I will not be long."

"Take your time," Cobryn told her, and put a hand on Lebryn's shoulder. He muttered something in the young man's ear; Gúthwyn had no doubt that it was a reminder to restrain his often-free tongue. She smiled.

When they left to find Éowyn, she watched them for a moment, hoping that they would be all right on their own. It was not as if it were easy to get lost in the Golden Hall, but they did not know their way around, nor most of the people.

"Gúthwyn," Tun said, and she looked back at him.

"Sorry," she replied, flushing. "I did not mean to ignore you. I am just worried for them."

"Can we speak somewhere in private?" he questioned.

For a moment, she hesitated, remembering what had happened when Haldor had asked her for a word alone. But Tun's brown eyes were sincere, and she knew that he would rather die than harm her. "Of course," she answered. Taking his hand, she led him behind the cover of one of the large pillars, determined to at least have the control over where they talked. She did not like to make the same foolish mistake twice.

Tun shifted awkwardly on his feet, looking rather guilty about something. "Gúthwyn," he began, "those men… how well do you know them?"

She looked at him in mild confusion. "I shared a dwelling with them and some other slaves for four years," she said, not sure what he was getting at. "They came with me because I would not leave my friends with nowhere to go."

"Are you in love with either of them?" he blurted out, his cheeks slightly red but his eyes narrowed intently.

With his words, Gúthwyn realized why her champion had not been overly pleased to meet her friends. Lebryn's good looks had probably not helped matters, either. "Tun!" she exclaimed, her laughter kind. "You are just as bad as Éomer!"

"So you do not, then?" he asked.

"I do not," she confirmed. "Both you and my brother worry too much. Do you think I have not already answered this question?"

Tun smiled, now much more relaxed. "I suppose that my concerns were foolish."

"Never," Gúthwyn said, and she meant it. "I am lucky to have two such protectors."

His eyes met hers just before he said, "He is lucky who protects you."

She flushed, flattered that her friend would go to such lengths to see her happy. "Thank you," she responded quietly, then sighed. "I will see to Heorot before I go inside, but I do not wish to hinder you."

"Alas," Tun replied, "my time is not yours to hinder, for Lord Erkenbrand has asked me to help him set up the tables in the Golden Hall. Théoden has declared a feast, and it will soon be ready."

"Then in that case," Gúthwyn replied, wincing, "I shall have to wear a dress, and I will need an hour just to do all the lacings!"

Tun chuckled. "It will be well worth it, my lady," he said, and added softly, "even if you do not think so."

Gúthwyn blushed at the compliment. "Tun, you are too kind."

Her friend opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment someone shouted his name, accompanied by a string of muttering about lazy young men.

"Erkenbrand," Tun whispered with a grimace. "I am sorry, but I must depart."

She bid him farewell and watched as he hurried towards the doors of Meduseld. When he had gone inside, she shook her head and smiled. He and her brother fretted over her safety more than was necessary—going so far as to ask her whether she was in love with Cobryn and Lebryn, simply because she was in their company! Well, they were both wrong. Her face clouded.

_No,_ she told herself. _Do not think of Borogor now. You have tasks to complete._

Half an hour later found Gúthwyn in the stables. She had groomed Heorot to perfection, talking to him occasionally. No one else was with her, for all hands were needed in the party preparations. She was looking forward to the occasion, as it would be an opportunity for her to be with her people; hopefully she would meet all those whose names she did not know.

Her gaze traveled over to Shadowfax's stall. Again, she felt curiosity overwhelming her. The _mearh_ was tossing its head, appearing rather bored. His fine coat gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through high windows, and she marveled at his superiority. Never in her life had she seen the likes of him; she doubted she ever would again. Almost before she was aware of what she was doing, she absent-mindedly scratched Heorot's ears and left the stall.

She approached Shadowfax, the quiet throbbing in her ears. The horse glanced at her as she drew nearer, his dark eyes narrowing. Gúthwyn knew that she should not be doing this, that at any moment one of the stableboys might return, but in a strange way she was almost powerless to stop herself as she opened the door to the horse's stall. Slipping inside, she was relieved when he did not—attack her? Whinny in displeasure?

"Hello," she whispered, not daring to raise her voice any higher.

He looked haughtily down at her as she edged closer. Her arm was stretching out, slowly and hesitantly, to stroke his mane. When she realized what she was doing, she halted; yet Shadowfax did not even blink, and slightly emboldened she reached towards him. He snorted as her hand touched his hide, but otherwise remained quiet. He allowed her to run her fingers through his mane. For nearly a full minute, she stood there like that, not saying a word.

"He is a magnificent horse, is he not?"

Gúthwyn's heart leaped into her throat, and she turned around to see Gandalf watching her from the stable door. His blue eyes were kind, but she still felt a guilty flush creep over her.

"Y-Yes," she quickly agreed, lowering her arm. "I-I am sorry…"

The wizard waved away her apologies. "Curiosity is natural for one so young," he replied, smiling.

She looked down at her hands. It always made her uncomfortable when he referred to her as a child—to his long years on this earth she was, but she felt centuries away from the carefree girl she had been eight years ago.

"I suppose you are not so young for your people," Gandalf conceded, and she glanced at him. "I forget these things."

Gúthwyn shifted awkwardly on her feet as the wizard drew closer, though his gaze was fixed on Shadowfax. "He is proud, just as you are. And like you, he has a will of his own."

Hot shame washed over her as she thought of getting on her knees for Haldor, allowing him to entwine his fingers in her hair and pull her face closer to his parted legs. She felt sick as she said, "You speak falsely of me, my lord."

"Do I, now?" Gandalf asked, his keen eyes now upon her. Gúthwyn had an unsettling sensation that he could see through her, and blinked. The wizard looked at her for another moment. "I did not speak up to Théoden on behalf of a submissive niece. Did you not wonder why I came to your defense?"

She had, in fact, been puzzling over that. Théoden had not wanted her to go to Isengard, but Gandalf had intervened until her uncle had reluctantly agreed. "I-I did," she replied nervously.

Gandalf put his hand on the stall door. "I had hoped that you would speak to Saruman," he said. "And you did. It takes great courage to stand up to someone far more powerful than you, and no small amount of pride. You showed Saruman that even the very slave he had thrown into that cage no longer had any fear for him."

Gúthwyn did not know what to say. The White Wizard had humiliated her in front of the entire company; she did not think that she had returned the favor.

"Yes," Gandalf murmured, no longer looking at her. "A very magnificent horse."

"Gandalf?" she asked quietly, unsure why she wanted to know this.

"Hm?"

"Will he let no one besides you ride him?"

The wizard's eyes darted back to hers, searching them thoroughly. "Why do you ask?"

"I-I do not know," she admitted.

He paused before answering. "If he wishes to, he will bear you."

Gúthwyn thought about this for a moment, and then nodded. Bowing briefly, she edged out of the stall. "I am sorry if I have troubled you, my lord," she murmured.

"Not at all," he said, smiling.

Giving a nervous nod, she left the stables, somewhat shaken by her encounter with the wizard. He did not know much about her past, yet he seemed to be able to see through her in a way that few others could—it was that which made her uneasy when she was around him. She did not like it when others guessed her thoughts as readily as if they were their own. It made her feel weaker than she already was.

Though the sun was bright, and the day was warm, she shivered as she made her way back into Meduseld.


	6. Festivities

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Six:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Those of you who are huge fans of the book will notice that I took much of the dialogue from The Two Towers—this is because the movie does not cover the journey between Helm's Deep and Isengard at all, so it was necessary. I tend to not like copying the books, but there you have it.

**Chapter Six**

"Éowyn, really, is all this necessary?" Gúthwyn grumbled, craning her neck to look over at her sister. Éowyn was tying up the final laces on her dress, making sure to do them up tightly.

"Unfortunately, it is," Éowyn replied, finishing the last knot.

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. Her sister was wearing a light blue gown, one that made her blond hair appear to be pure gold. She looked stunning, and Gúthwyn would not be surprised if the eyes of many men followed her that night. Not to mention that there were no laces.

"I cannot believe this fits you," Éowyn said in response, moving in front of Gúthwyn so she could see how the dress suited her. "I wore it when I was sixteen."

Gúthwyn glanced down at it. She had wanted to wear the grey one, which at least she could walk around in somewhat comfortably, but her sister would have none of it. Instead, she was now wearing a light green gown of Éowyn's, tied up the back with brown lacing. Her curves were definitely not large enough to look good in the outfit, and she hated it.

"Well, sometime we will have dresses that are made for you," Éowyn said then, sighing. "You are too thin, sister."

"There is nothing that can be done about that now," Gúthwyn replied, and sought to distract her sister from the topic. The last thing she wanted was for Éowyn to find out how little she ate—she did not want to have to have her appetite "cured" again.

"Let us go, then," Éowyn said. "We do not want to be late."

They hurried out of the bedroom, Gúthwyn fidgeting with the sleeves of her gown until Éowyn forbid her from touching it for the rest of the night. Soon they arrived at the throne room, which was packed with people. Théoden had declared that all of Edoras was to come to Meduseld for a victory feast, and she doubted that a single person remained outside of the Golden Hall.

"Go stand on the dais," Éowyn told her, leaning close to be heard over the noise. "I will be bringing the cup to Théoden."

It was an old custom of Rohan for the feasting cup to be passed around. Nothing was special about the actual vessel itself, for though it was silver it was small, and its design was simple, but the people drank out of it for luck and health. Both Éowyn and Gúthwyn had been teased mercilessly by Éomer in their younger, clumsier days, as he despaired of them ever being able to even hold it long enough to present it to the king. Yet she did not doubt that Éowyn would perform the task admirably.

She swiftly climbed the stairs, rather nervous at being in front of all these people. Théoden was sitting on his throne, and he smiled at her. "That dress looks beautiful on you," he complimented her.

Gúthwyn blushed. "Thank you," she said, giving a short curtsy. She wobbled slightly, and her uncle chuckled.

"It has been too long since you have been at court," he said.

The grin on her face lessened somewhat, but she refused to let memories of her past haunt the night. "Yes, far too long," she agreed, and then surveyed the rest of the dais. Éomer was already there, standing on the other side of the throne. Crossing over to him, she whispered, "You look good tonight, brother."

It was true. His hair, normally kept in place by his helmet or partially tied back, was resting loosely on his shoulders. He had abandoned his armor in favor of a more comfortable, full-length tunic, which had slits below the belt for him to move about freely. Only once or twice did she look into the crowd, but each time she saw several of the maids watching him.

Éomer smiled, and glanced at her dress. "I remember Éowyn wearing that," he said. "I had to blackmail her into it."

She laughed, then asked, "What did you blackmail her with?"

He was about to answer when a sudden hush fell over the room. Théoden had stood up, causing everyone to abandon their conversations. Éowyn, who had been standing at the foot of the platform, now began ascending it. As she did, Gúthwyn gazed out over the crowd. She saw Aragorn and Gamling at the table right behind Éowyn, watching her sister as she held the cup out to Théoden.

Next to them was Tun. He met her eyes as she glanced at him, and they smiled at each other briefly. Then she looked at the other side of the room, where the two Halflings were. Their feet did not even touch the ground, though the benches were low. Next to them was Gimli, whose hand was clenched firmly around a tall mug. Her eyes moved past them, and fell upon Legolas. He was leaning against a pillar, observing the ceremony, but he felt her gaze on him and glanced at her.

Hastily, she looked away, fearing those blue eyes that were Haldor's, no matter what anyone said. To keep her mind off of them, she scanned the crowd for Cobryn and Lebryn. At length, she found them, sitting next to each other in the far back. Cobryn nodded at her, but Lebryn was too busy silently entertaining the equally quiet overtures of several flirtatious females. She repressed a giggle, and settled for sighing softly in amusement.

Yet everyone stopped what they were doing when Théoden began to speak. His voice echoed through the Golden Hall as he welcomed them to his home. "We have gathered here for several reasons," he said, holding the cup before him. "First, to a victory well-fought!"

Loud cheers rang out, nearly shaking Meduseld with their volume. The men who had defended the Keep found their backs being slapped by just about everyone surrounding them.

"Second of all," Théoden continued when the noise had died down, "it is already known to Rohan, but the return of my niece merits a celebration!"

The applause and gleeful shouts were thunderous. Gúthwyn's grin stretched from ear to ear as the people yelled her name over and over, delighted to have her back in Edoras after nearly eight years' exile. Beside her, Éomer was clapping the hardest, so that she could hear his strong hands coming together even above the din in Meduseld.

Eventually, a semblance of quiet returned. Théoden smiled at her, then turned back to the Rohirrim. When he next spoke, however, his words were somber. "I wish that were all that we are here for, but with any triumph in battle there must be a loss of life. Tonight, we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country."

Gúthwyn bowed her head, thinking of all the poor mothers whose sons had been cruelly torn away by the Uruks' steel swords, or the wives who no longer had husbands to love. The image of Haleth, sobbing quietly for his father, who had perished even before the fight began, flooded her mind.

"Hail the victorious dead!" Théoden declared then, and raised his cup.

"Hail!" the people echoed, and lifted their own mugs to honor the courageous warriors. Gúthwyn did not have one of her own, but she shouted along with them all the same.

When they had drained their cups, the festivities began. The royal family left the dais, Éowyn weaving her way through the crowd to offer the cup to various people. Théoden went to find Gandalf, but Éomer said to Gúthwyn, "Will you try some of the mead tonight, sister? It is good, and will cheer even the most gloomy of souls."

Although most children were raised on ale, this was a finer brew, one that was used especially for celebrations. It was far stronger, and as a result Théoden had never allowed her to try any. Now she beamed, and replied, "Of course! Why ever not?"

"That is what I like to hear," Éomer declared, laughing. He led her over to where a giant still had been erected, which already had a great crowd of people clustered around it. When it was their turn, Éomer seized two mugs from a nearby table and handed them to the man operating the still.

"Is the second one for you or young Gúthwyn?" the man asked, chuckling as he filled the first mug.

"For Gúthwyn," Éomer replied. "But be sparing with the drink, Fealu, as it is her first time—I would not want to have to carry her to her room!"

"I would not want you to carry me," Gúthwyn snorted, giving him a light shove.

Fealu gave a gap-toothed grin and handed them their mugs. Hers was halfway empty, but when she took a sip she was glad he had not filled it to the brim.

"How is it?" Éomer asked her as they made their way to one of the tables.

Nearly choking on its potency, she managed, "It is different."

Éomer put his arm around her shoulders and, lifting the mug to his mouth, almost drained the contents in one long swig. Gúthwyn giggled. "You will be passed out on the floor soon," she told him as they sat down amidst several guards.

"My lady," Gamling said, leaning over to talk to her, "it takes far more than a single mug to get your brother drunk."

"Really?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at Éomer just as he was swallowing the last drops of his cup. "How many, would you say?"

"Ten," one of the younger guards suggested.

"No, no, more than that," Gamling disagreed, taking a sip from his own mug. "Fifteen is my wager."

"And tonight, it shall be twenty," Éomer vowed, eliciting gales of approving laughter from them all. Standing up, he said, "Gúthwyn, do you want any more?"

She showed him her mug, out of which she had only had a small sip. "No, thank you," she replied, smiling. "Please, Éomer, do not make a disgrace of yourself. I shall not be very happy."

"Yes, let us not have a repeat of that drinking game," Gamling added, and Éomer coughed slightly.

"Drinking game?" Gúthwyn asked, glancing back and forth between the two men. "Do I want to know?"

"No," Gamling said, and drained his mug.

At that moment, Tun came over, taking Éomer's empty seat. Gamling left then, returning to the still for some more mead. "You look wonderful," her champion complimented her, grinning. "Giving your sister a run for her money, are we?"

"Please," Gúthwyn said, rolling her eyes. "I would be more comfortable in a sack than this thing."

"I think I prefer you in the dress," he teased her, drinking deeply from his mug.

"Oh, stop it," she retorted, but could not help laughing.

Tun's eyes wandered across the room. "Your friend seems to be having fun," he commented.

Gúthwyn followed his gaze to see Lebryn, arm in arm with a pretty blond, whom she recognized to be Gamling's niece. "That did not take him very long," she said in amusement. She scanned the room for Cobryn, but saw no sign of him.

"He had better hope that Gamling does not see him," Tun replied, finishing half of his ale in one gulp.

Craning her neck, Gúthwyn looked for the captain of the guard. She spotted him beside Éomer at the still, watching something in front of him. It was only when he shifted that she could see what had captured his interest. Legolas and Gimli were facing each other on opposite ends of a table, surrounded by a horde of cheering men, each with several empty mugs piled before them.

_So that is a drinking game,_ she thought to herself.

Tun saw what she was gazing at, and chuckled. "Last one standing wins," he explained.

"Has Éomer ever done one of those?" she inquired, remembering Gamling's words from earlier.

Tun nearly choked on the last bit of his mead. "Yes," he replied, once he had recovered. "Against Théodred."

"Oh," she said, thinking sadly of her cousin. In an effort to bring the lightheartedness back, she asked, "Who won?"

"Théodred," Tun said, observing her reaction carefully. "Éomer could not get out of bed for close to three days."

Normally, such a tale would have made her laugh, but the image of her cousin's still body was haunting her. Sighing, she took a sip of the ale, and winced as it burned down her throat. Tun looked as though he regretted telling her the story.

"I am sorry," she said, glancing down into the swirling depths of her mug. "Please, do not pay attention to my mood."

He was about to respond when the unexpected sounds of a fiddle rose into the air. One of the men had gotten to his feet and was playing the instrument, drawing a large crowd of admirers. Several of the people began dancing, whirling around and clapping in time to the music. Requests for old favorites were given, and soon two more fiddles had been added to the first.

Gúthwyn would have been content to watch them—indeed, she could already feel her spirits rising—but Tun leaped to his feet. Before she knew what was happening, he had taken her hands and pulled her up. "Come!" he exclaimed, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Let us dance!"

"No, no, I really do not know how…" Vainly, she tried to protest as he dragged her over to where the crowd had gathered. Her heart was not in refusing him, however, and she soon ceased her objections.

"Now, what is this I hear of my lady not knowing how to dance?" he asked, once they stood amongst the people.

She blushed. "I never learned," she answered, slightly abashed.

"Then we shall take care of that," he said, lifting her hands above her head. Gúthwyn blinked, but then realized that those around them were doing so.

Having Tun teach her was not so bad. Even when she stepped on his feet several times, he did not wince. In fact, he seemed to be having the time of his life. She herself was grinning ear to ear, giggling with each misstep of hers. "I do not think you should be calling me a lady anymore," she said at one point, after she had clumsily twirled under his arm. "I have less coordination than a child learning to walk!"

"Yet you smile in spite of everything, and I am all the more delighted for it, my lady," he said.

"Tun!" Both of them glanced over to see one of the younger guards approaching them. He bowed to Gúthwyn, then turned to her champion. "I have been looking for you since the party began, and now I learn that you have been bothering this poor woman all night! Excuse me, my lady," he said to her. "I do hope his company has been somewhat tolerable."

All three of them chuckled, and Gúthwyn replied, "He was been wonderful. Rather, I fear it is my company that is near unbearable."

"Never," Tun immediately said. "What do you want?" he asked his friend, though not unkindly.

"I was sent by Erkenbrand to see if his favorite nephew could not be parted from his lady friend for a few moments."

"I am his only nephew," Tun grumbled, but nodded all the same. "Farewell," he said to Gúthwyn, bowing deeply. "It was a pleasure."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn responded. When Tun and his friend had left, she decided to find Cobryn and Lebryn. That is, if she could draw Lebryn away from the women.

Nearly pushing her way out of the crowd, she went to the back of the room, where she had last seen them. Cobryn was sitting on one of the benches, a half-full mug of ale before him. Lebryn was nowhere in sight.

"Are you having fun?" she asked her friend, easing herself onto the bench beside him.

He nodded, smiling. She was pleased to see that he was not just saying that to alleviate her concerns: His eyes were sparkling. "The ale is good, and your people are lively. They lighten my heart."

Gúthwyn beamed. "I am glad to hear it!"

Cobryn looked at her. "I have been watching you," he said. "Never before have I seen you so happy."

She blushed, but her grin did not dim. "You would be hard-pressed to find something that puts me in higher spirits than being with my people," she replied.

"Speaking of people," Cobryn said, gazing at her keenly, "you are spending much time with that guard Tun. Is there anything I should know?"

Giggling, she said, "No. He is my champion, and was my best friend before I was taken from Rohan."

"Your champion?" Cobryn repeated, arching an eyebrow.

Nodding, she explained, "He swore his service to me when I returned."

Cobryn took a drink, smirking. "Your words would make me vow to observe him carefully, but for the fact that if Éomer is not already doing so, then I am a Dwarf."

"And both of you trouble yourselves too much," Gúthwyn answered, shaking her head. "I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs."

When Cobryn looked at her, she burst out laughing. "I did not mean it like that!" she insisted. "Really!"

"I know, I know," he conceded, smiling.

"Now," she began, looking around, "where is Lebryn? Has he gone to get more ale, or do I have to prize him away from Gamling's niece?"

"I fear it is the latter," Cobryn said, yet he chuckled all the same. "Though it may very well be the other way around."

Gúthwyn stood up, and patted him on the shoulder. "I go now to see if I might steal a dance from him, but do not feel like you have to stay here. I am sure my brother would be more than happy to entertain you."

"Subject me to an interrogation, more likely," Cobryn snorted. "Do not get me wrong: I am sure he is wonderful, but he still does not trust me with you."

"Aye, that is what happens when you have a protective brother. Even when you are five years old, all of your male friends are frowned down upon." Gúthwyn sighed, but contentedly. She loved Éomer to death, and in all actuality did not begrudge him of his watchfulness. "Well, goodbye for now!"

"Farewell," he called after her as she disappeared into the crowd.

It did not take her long to find Lebryn. She merely had to locate the largest group of giggling girls; from there, it was a small matter of working her way into the center. Her friend was wrapping up a tale about some ludicrous topic or other when she saw him. Gamling's niece was nowhere in sight, though he was certainly not lacking for company.

"Gúthwyn!" he cried when he saw her, grinning and raising his mug in a toast. "I would have sought you out earlier, yet I was all too aware that your guard has a sword and I do not."

All around him, the girls burst into laughter. She did not recognize most of them, but smiled nonetheless. "He does not carry it with him tonight, my friend," she said, "and I have come to see if you might spare a little of your time for a dance."

"Certainly!" he exclaimed, setting down his tankard. "My good ladies, I shall return," he promised, giving a mock bow.

"Do you know any of their names?" Gúthwyn muttered, once they had departed the circle. He firmly shook his head.

They danced for awhile, during which she saw Éowyn pass her by. Her sister looked surprised, but smiled and called a greeting to her all the same. It was not until far later that Gúthwyn learned that women of her social status did not dance with such abandonment; yet now, she happily returned Éowyn's salutation, and brought her attentions back to Lebryn.

He was a far better dancer than she, which admittedly did not take much; yet they had both learned the same footwork this night. Many a taunt did she earn from her friend, who mercilessly teased her whenever she accidentally stepped on his toes. "You will never find a husband at this rate," he said, laughing as she almost lost her footing on a turn.

Ignoring the twist in her stomach, Gúthwyn replied, "And you will never find a wife, if only for the fact that you will never be able to choose!"

"It is better to keep your options open," Lebryn countered, nodding his head wisely. She stepped on his foot again, and this time it was on purpose.

"What was that for?" he demanded, whirling her around more forcefully than he had before.

Giggling, Gúthwyn advised, "You had better watch what women you consort with. My brother is not the only powerful man in the city, nor is he the only one who protects his sister. And that is to say nothing of fathers—or husbands."

He frowned. "Whose wife have I been dancing with?"

"When I find out, I will tell you," she said, grinning. "But I do not doubt that there are some women who have taken advantage of their man's excessive drinking." It was not deemed too unfaithful; it was a fact of life.

As the song ended, Lebryn asked if she would like to dance again, but she shook her head. "I cannot long stand the envious gazes of your friends," she explained, chuckling. Indeed, most of the girls had been watching them intently from a corner. "They may soon try to murder me if I do not return you."

He flashed her a cheeky grin. "I would not want blood on my hands tonight," he smirked, and with a small bow he had departed. Immediately, Gúthwyn felt about seven pairs of eyes leave her.

Sighing in relief, she was about to find Tun or Éomer when two loud voices met her ears. Glancing over, she saw that a great crowd had gathered before one of the tables, upon which two small figures were dancing and singing: the Hobbits. Eagerly she went towards them. The people made room for her, and as she drew closer she could clearly hear the last words of their song.

_You can drink your fancy ales,  
__You can drink 'em by the flagon!  
__But the only brew for the brave and true,  
Comes from the Green Dragon!_

For a moment, it seemed to Gúthwyn that Pippin faltered, his attention caught by something beyond the table. But just as quickly, he recovered and finished the song with Merry, then bowed to the resounding applause. Gúthwyn looked to where the Halfling's gaze had been, and saw Gandalf and Aragorn standing together. She would have gone over to speak with them, yet they seemed deeply absorbed in a conversation.

Instead, she went over to the Hobbits as they jumped off of the table. "My lady!" Merry cried, catching sight of her. "Did you enjoy our dance?"

"It was excellent," Gúthwyn replied, grinning enthusiastically. "I hope you have not used all of your songs!"

"Never," Pippin declared, appearing aghast at the idea. "We have hundreds more."

"I look forward to hearing them, then," Gúthwyn said. It had cheered her heart to see the Hobbits so carefree, and she thought that the Shire must have been a wonderful place to live. She would ask them more about their land later.

"Well, we're off!" Merry exclaimed. "My mug is nearly empty." Pippin glanced at his, and turned it upside down. Not a single drop fell out.

"Mine, too," he said sadly, but then brightened. "To the still!"

Gúthwyn laughed as they hurried away. For a moment she watched them; when they were out of sight, she decided to find Éomer.

Her brother was sitting at a table with some of the guards, including Tun. All of them had tankards that were brimming with ale clenched in their hands. Some of them, she did not doubt, were on their seventh or eighth mug. Yet she went over to them anyway, smiling when they spotted her and raised their cups in a toast.

"Welcome back!" Tun greeted her as she sat down next to him at the end of the bench. Made boisterous by the drink, he put an arm around her shoulders. Gúthwyn's own heart was lightened by the atmosphere, and she did not even cringe from the contact.

"Well, sister, where have you been?" Éomer asked, narrowing his eyes slightly at Tun's arm. Of all the men, his wits had been the least addled. "I was looking for you."

"I was with Cobryn and Lebryn," she explained, smiling.

"Lebryn, the dark-haired one?" Gamling asked, taking a large gulp of his drink. When she nodded, wondering if he had seen his niece with her friend, he said, "That is a handsome piece of flesh—I do not doubt he will find himself with a maid behind the stables tonight!"

Uproarious laughter broke out along the table. Gúthwyn blushed, and was grateful that both Éomer and Tun did not partake much in the jest. Indeed, Éomer said to Gamling: "Curb your tongue, good friend; there is a lady present."

"My apologies," Gamling hastily told her, swallowing the last of his mirth and ale.

She waved them away with her hand, but was relieved when the talk turned to ridiculous conquests and unbelievable tales of battle. For awhile, she was content to listen and scoff at them. Tun offered her some mead from his nearly empty tankard, but she refused him politely.

"It is not to your taste?" he asked, smiling.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I would rather have you enjoy it."

"Oh, I have," he snickered, and she grinned.

"I do not doubt it," she said as he drained his mug with the hand that was not on her shoulder. His motions were awkward, because he still had his sling on.

After she had been at the table for a few minutes, she glanced over and saw Éowyn speaking with the Hobbits. She had not seen her sister nearly all night, and said to Tun, "I will be back soon."

She made to stand up, but Tun's arm caught her by the waist and gently pulled her down. His movement was unsteady, and Gúthwyn wound up half-sitting on his lap. "Are you going to leave me all alone with these barbarous men?" he asked, grinning mischievously.

Giggling, she lightly slapped him. Had the party not made her so happy, she would have tried to get off of him. "Tun, you are drunk!" she instead exclaimed.

"Not so drunk that I do not know a beautiful lady when I see her," he murmured in her ear.

At this, she laughed even harder, saying, "How much mead have you had?" Yet he was starting to make her uncomfortable; she began inching away from him.

Tun was about to respond when Éomer's voice called across the table, "Tun, my friend, be careful with my sister! You are not her only protector."

Her brother's words were light, but there was a warning tone underlying them. When Gúthwyn glanced at him, she saw an amused face, though his eyes were dark and forbidding.

Tun took the hint immediately, and let go of Gúthwyn so that she could slide onto the bench. "No harm intended, my lord," he apologized, inclining his head. "Forgive me, my lady," he added to her.

"I-It is fine," she said, and got to her feet. She had completely forgotten what her earlier reason for leaving had been, and made up something quickly. "I am going to get some ale."

She met Éomer's eyes for a brief instant, but then turned away so he did not have to see how much her face had paled. As she walked towards the still, having no choice but to follow through on her word, she felt her hands shaking. It had nothing to do with Tun and everything to do with Haldor. Tun's grip on her waist had brought back a sudden rush of terrifying memories, ones that made her quiver in fear.

_Stay calm,_ she told herself, trying to keep her breathing even as she approached the still. The man who had been there was no longer operating it, but it was not difficult to figure out how to use. She took one of the last mugs from the nearby table and started filling it, nearly missing the cup because her hands were trembling so violently. _Haldor is not here; he cannot touch you._

Perhaps she would have made it through the rest of the party if she had not turned around and seen Legolas right behind her.

"Greetings," he said, lifting his empty tankard in explanation. "How have you been?"

A wild terror seized her with an iron grip, and she stepped back, bumping into the table. Her heart was pounding furiously as she stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. _Haldor Haldor Haldor!_ her mind screamed at her.

"Are you all right?" he inquired concernedly, his blue eyes holding hers. Gúthwyn looked at him and saw only Haldor, his cruel gaze pinning her to where she stood. She could not breathe. "Gúthwyn?"

He was everywhere. Surrounding her, touching her, choking her… She would never be rid of him…

Then her vision cleared, and Legolas was looking at her with pity-filled eyes. "Is it him?" he asked quietly.

Something snapped in her. With a furious motion, she slammed her mug down on the table, so forcefully that half of it spilled out. _You had to ruin everything!_ she wanted to scream at him, but no words came out. Instead, she stormed past him, struggling to conceal the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

No one at the party saw her afterwards.


	7. Collapsed Defenses

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seven:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Seven**

With a sinking heart, Legolas watched as Gúthwyn all but ran away from him. All of his earlier happiness was dulled; once again, he found himself wondering why she was so terrified of him. Not even two sentences had he said to her before she had panicked, backing into the table with her horrified blue eyes staring at him.

Sighing, he looked around at the party. He was no longer in the mood to revel at the victory of Helm's Deep, and decided to go outside so that he might be alone with his thoughts. Putting down his mug, he began making his way towards the doors. It took him nearly five minutes to get there, as he had to fight through drunken crowds and navigate his feet around spills.

At last reaching the doors, he pushed them open and strode out into the night air. He breathed a sigh of relief, inhaling and exhaling deeply. The stars were out, but as he glanced up at them he was troubled to see that much of their light had been hidden. He did not doubt it had something to do with the gathering gloom in the East. It saddened him to see that already, before the war had even begun, such beauty was being lost.

Standing on the far corner of the landing, Legolas looked out across the land. His mind turned back to Gúthwyn, recalling despondently how she had been so happy earlier. He had seen her a couple of times, dancing and laughing. A glow had been in her face, healthier and brighter than anything he had ever noticed on her before. Yet when he had gone behind her to fill up his tankard, all of the blood had drained from her cheeks, and she had become pale and frightened as a child waking from a nightmare.

At that moment, the doors opened, and someone stepped out onto the landing. Legolas turned and saw, to his slight surprise, the very guard that Gúthwyn had been with for most of the night. As Tun's gaze fixed on him, he suddenly had a very good idea what the guard was out here for.

Tun stalked over to him, his movements sober, though Legolas knew everyone had consumed copious amounts of the mead. He himself had won a drinking contest against Gimli.

"Hello, Tun," he said cautiously, inclining his head as the guard approached.

Tun looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Legolas, right?" he asked. Legolas nodded.

For a moment, the two of them stood there. Then Tun said, "You know why I am here, do you not?"

Again, Legolas nodded, smelling the ale on the guard's breath.

"What did you say to her?" Tun demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Legolas sighed. "Tun, I can assure you that it was not my intent to frighten her. I do not know why she left. Perhaps you should look for her."

"It is not my place to follow Gúthwyn to her room," Tun said, with a bite of anger in his voice.

Legolas nodded in agreement, but knew that the conversation was not finished. "What do you want from me?" he asked quietly.

"I wanted to tell you something," Tun replied, leaning closer. "You might think me unreasonable for coming out here, and maybe I am, but know this: I am not the only one who cares for Gúthwyn. She is loved by the people. Her brother is the king's nephew, and heir to the throne. He will fiercely protect her from all harm."

"I am aware of this," Legolas said. The only reason, he thought, why Éomer had not done what Tun was doing now was because Gúthwyn refused to betray her own weaknesses. Somehow, Tun must have seen their encounter.

"Then you will not disagree," Tun answered, "when I tell you that it would be in your best interests to not trouble her anymore."

"It has never been my desire to bother Gúthwyn," Legolas told him, meeting his eyes firmly. "I will not seek her company anymore, if that is what you are suggesting. But I would have you know that I have done nothing to her, and it is beyond me to understand why she…" He did not want to use the term "fears." "Dislikes me."

"That may be so," Tun conceded. "But heed my words." When Legolas nodded, he gave a grim smile. "I am glad we had this conversation," he said, and turned away.

Legolas watched the guard return to Meduseld, sighing as the doors closed on the feasting and revelry. There was now little doubt regarding the extent of Tun's devotion to Gúthwyn. He could read it easily in the man's eyes. And he did not blame the guard for threatening him, as he had a lady to safeguard. It was unnecessary protection, granted, but freely given and accepted all the same.

Well, he would follow Tun's advice. If it made their lives easier, then so be it. Yet he sighed again as he gazed up at the stars: He had wished to at least amend Gúthwyn's grievances with him.

_It is no matter now,_ he thought. _You have tried, and that is all anyone can do._

Far away in her room, Gúthwyn stirred, and the candlelight filtering on her bed showed a face shining with sweat.

* * *

_Haldor was above her, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed. "Are you ready, Gúthwyn?" he asked in mock concern, cruelly delighting in her distress._

_She did not want to say anything. Admitting fear was weakness; being bold would only result in a harsher punishment. He knew this, and laughed. "You are too predictable," he said, lifting one of his hands and sliding it down her bare stomach._

_Though she whimpered, she did not dare move against him. He knew this also, and leaned forward so that his lips were nearly touching hers. "On second thought, I have a surprise for you," he whispered, gleeful amusement in his every word. His tongue lightly licked at the corner of her mouth, causing her to shudder in disgust. "Something better."_

"_W-What?" she managed to say at last, the first thing she had spoken since she had come to his tent._

"_You shall see," Haldor replied, and got off of her._

_Shocked, she lay there numbly, until he ordered her to get up and put her clothes on. "We will finish this later," he promised her, cold steel in his speech._

"_W-Where are y-you taking me?" Gúthwyn stammered, terrified of his pleasure. She had grown to loathe it even more than his anger._

_In response, he gripped her by the arm, and dragged her forward. Her foot stepped in a strange liquid, and she shivered when he told her to stay there. He left her then; she did not hear his footsteps, but felt his presence at the other end of the tent. There was a crackling noise, and suddenly light flared throughout the room._

_Gúthwyn looked down, and shrieked in terror. She was standing in a pool of blood, her feet dyed scarlet. Hastily, she leaped out of it, and as she did so it splattered onto her legs._

"_Look up," Haldor commanded her. She always obeyed him. She raised her eyes._

_There were bodies everywhere._

_Nearly gagging in horror, Gúthwyn backed away, but then he stood beside her and murmured, "My collection."_

"_W-What?" she gasped, feeling nauseous. There was so much blood… A terrible reek filled the air._

"_You do not see it?" he asked quietly, and there was laughter in his voice. "Come closer."_

_She was powerless to resist as he steered her forward. "Do you remember now?" he inquired, using his booted foot to turn over one of the corpses._

_Chalibeth's face stared up at her._

"_No!" Gúthwyn cried, trying to twist away from Haldor. "No, stop! You do not… no!"_

"_That is not all," he replied, and yanked her over to the right. "Let us see the next exhibit."_

_He kicked over another body, revealing Beregil's face, contorted with pain unimaginable. Gúthwyn felt herself choking, and could not even speak as Haldor dragged away from him._

_The Elf turned over a third figure, and this time it was Tun. His golden hair was red with blood._

"_Haldor, no!" she screamed, staring in horror at the sight of her champion._

"_He gave his life for you… the fool!" Haldor hissed, and his grip on her arm was so tight that it was agonizing. "And look at him!"_

_A second later, Cobryn's face was gazing at her. Both of his legs had been cut off._

_She collapsed. Haldor did not catch her, and she fell painfully on the ground. The fabric of her pants was soaked in blood; she whimpered, but the wetness did not go away._

"_You are pathetic!" he snarled at her, and kicked her in the head. Stars exploded before her eyes as she was flung several feet forward. She landed on something soft. "You cannot even bear the sight of his body, worthless though it is!"_

_As he spoke, she tried to get to her feet, but her hands slipped on this blood, and slid on top of… another hand._

_Terrified shrieks echoed throughout the tent. Gúthwyn reared up, yet a cold hand slammed down on her back and forced her down. "Look at it!" Haldor growled, keeping her pressed onto the corpse._

"_I-I cannot breathe!" she choked. "P-Please!"_

"_Look at it!" he commanded. "Do not make me repeat myself!"_

_Her hand, trembling and shaking, extended forward. As she gasped for breath, she reached for the dark brown locks, now sticky with scarlet fluids. Haldor lifted the pressure off of her slightly so she could turn the entire body over._

"_I thought you might enjoy a visit from your cousin," Haldor said as she stared down in horror at Théodred. His face was now pure white, contrasting garishly with the blood dripping down it._

_Once more, she went limp. Yet this time Haldor laughed, and pulled her off of her cousin. "And these…" He threw her onto the ground so that she landed between two bodies. Golden hair spilled over their shoulders. One wore red armor, while the other was clad in a blue dress…_

"_NO!" she yelled, scrambling away from Éowyn and Éomer. "Stop it! Stop! Please!"_

_And then she was throwing up, adding even more stench to the air. Her shoulders were shaking so violently that she nearly choked on her own vomit. When she had finished, Haldor grabbed her by the back of her neck and lifted her up, turning her around so that she was facing him. Once, twice, three times he slapped her._

"_You disgust me!" he spat. "You are weak! Useless! Not even worthy of the title 'whore' that everyone bestows upon you!"_

_With that, he roughly yanked her over to stand before the last bodies. There were three of them, two of which were smaller than all the rest. A cold chill washed over Gúthwyn._

"_Turn them around: Let us see the grand finale," Haldor ordered._

_Even if he had no control over her, she could not have disobeyed him. Something was drawing her hands to the corpses, forcing her to grip their shoulders and turn them to face her. And one by one, they did. Hammel. Haiweth. Her fingers touched the skin of the last one… Borogor. All of them had maggots roaming over their eyes._

_Haldor shoved her onto them._

_Gúthwyn screamed, thrashing wildly in horror. At the same time, the light went out, and everything was thrown into darkness. That was when she felt them… little burrowing maggots, crawling into her hair, worming through her clothing, getting all over her skin and biting, sucking at the flesh; try as she might to fling them off, they swarmed over her, getting into her mouth so that she gagged, into her ears so that she could not hear her own cries, in her nose so that the smell of blood and vomit was dulled, and in her eyes so that all grew black…_

Gúthwyn sat bolt upright in her bed, shaking in terror. Her dress, which she had not even bothered to remove, was clinging to her… the maggots. With a whimper, she leaped out of the bed, feeling as if they were still all over her. In a panic she began yanking at the fabric, her fingers fumbling for the laces. She felt tears coming to her eyes as they slipped. When at last she had undone them, after what seemed like a thousand years of agony, she tore the dress off of her, removing the shift along with it.

Panting, her chest heaving up and down, she kicked the clothes away from her. A shudder came over her as she thought of them covered in maggots. Then her gut turned over, and she barely made it to the chamber pot before throwing up the entire contents of her stomach. _Please, make it stop…_ she silently begged, blinking the tears out of her eyes. _Please…_

When she was done, she went to the washbasin, tipped her head back, and poured the whole pitcher over her body. The cold water splashed down her arms and legs, cleansing them of the maggots. But not the filth. Not that which she had carried around with her ever since that first night in Haldor's tent. Not that which had increased tenfold when she had made love to him.

Now shivering, she crossed the room to a set of drawers and opened the top one. With trembling arms, she pulled out a nightgown and a thick robe. Putting them on, she stumbled back over to the bed and lay upon it. She curled up into a ball, resting her head on the pillow, feeling more unclean than she ever had in her entire life. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Haldor's face above her, drawing nearer until she flung her eyes open in terror.

For about half an hour Gúthwyn lay there, shaking uncontrollably. The silence of the night was driving her mad. She tossed and turned, trying and failing to forget Haldor's burning eyes. A feeling of suffocation was slowly coming over her. In an attempt to be rid of it, she thought of the party, but it merely worsened things. She kept remembering how she had seen Legolas, and when his face entered her mind she grew fearful. It was impossible for her to close off her emotions when she was around him, yet they were weak—just as she was now. _Whore._

At last, she could not stand it. Clutching the robe tightly around her arms, she got unsteadily to her feet and crept towards the door. She needed someone to talk to; she needed Éomer. He would protect her. He always did.

So even when she left behind the candlelight, and plunged into the darkness of the hallway, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. Then the next, and the next. Slowly she moved down the passage, her breaths coming in ragged gasps that she was sure would wake up everyone in Meduseld. But she heard not a sound as she went, a frail shadow on the moonlit wall.

Eventually she came to the door leading into the throne room. She had to cross this in order to get to the other side of the Golden Hall, where Théoden, Théodred, and Éomer's chambers were. Gulping nervously, she peered out and quickly scanned the room for any movement. There was none. So she took a deep breath and, before she could think better of what she was doing, skittered across the throne room. When she reached the opposite hallway, she tripped on her robe, and stumbled into the doorframe.

Gúthwyn held her breath, but there were no sounds of someone stirring in one of the rooms. A sigh of relief escaped her, though her limbs were still shaking. _Éomer,_ she thought, and gradually began moving down the passage. Her robe tightened around her as she came to her brother's chambers and saw that the door was open. Cautiously, she edged to the threshold and glanced in.

There was a lump in the middle of the bed, and at the sight of it she paused. Did she really want to wake her brother at this hour because of a nightmare she had had? Was it worth it? She did not think she would even have the courage to go in and shake him to get his attention; what if his eyes flared open too suddenly, like Chalibeth's and Haldor's?

_Maybe I should go back,_ she thought, but even as such an idea passed through her head she quavered at it. All of her strength of will had been put forth to get here, and she would not be able to make it back.

"Gúthwyn?"

With a terrified gasp, Gúthwyn whirled around and flung herself against the wall. Then she realized that Éomer was standing before her, a cup of water in his hands.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. "I saw you running across the throne room—are you ill?"

For a moment, she could not speak. To her horror, tears started filling her eyes. Éomer's unexpected appearance had frightened her far more than she wanted to admit. She was unable to even meet his eyes. Why was she so pathetic, so weak?

"Gúthwyn?" her brother asked, his voice not unkind.

"I-I had a-a n-n-nightmare," she whispered, stuttering on her words and looking away.

Éomer was silent for a minute or two, but then he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Come in," he said, gesturing to his room.

She nodded meekly and stepped inside. "Please, sit," he told her.

Shivering, she crossed the room and lowered herself onto his bed. He joined her a few seconds later. "Do you want to talk about it?" he inquired, setting the cup on a small table.

"I…" Gúthwyn faltered, unsure of what to do. If she explained her dream in full, then he would be able to guess at much of what had transpired between her and Haldor. But she wanted to tell someone; was that not why she had come here in the first place? "It was about Haldor," she finally muttered.

"The Elf?" Éomer asked, and she nodded. "What did he do?"

At his question, her vision became blurred with tears. Hastily she turned away, afraid that Éomer would see her and think her frail.

"Has he ever…" Éomer's words seemed more difficult for him to get out. "In Mordor, did he ever do anything to you?"

A lump formed in her throat as she nodded.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

There was a long pause. Gúthwyn's first instinct would have been to shake her head, yet her body refused to cooperate with her. She was trembling now, so much that Éomer put a steadying hand on her shoulder. If she told her brother what had happened, he would at least know why she walked around with a shadow of her former terror always hanging over her. But would he not think her a whore, after all that she had done to Haldor?

"You do not have to, if you do not wish to."

As her brother's gentle voice met her ears, she made her decision. "N-No," she replied shakily. "I-I…"

He watched her patiently as she struggled to finish. "H-How much… how much t-time do you h-have?"

"Take as much of it as you need," was Éomer's firm response.

Gúthwyn stared down at her knees. She could back out still, if she wanted to. She could leave his room, and return to her own. Return to the maggots.

Shuddering, she repressed the urge to scratch at her arm, but glanced surreptitiously at it. There was nothing on the skin. "I-I met him," she whispered, "m-my first day…"

She began telling him the story. Not a single detail did she leave out. Bitterness filled her as she recounted how foolish she had been, how she had mistakenly believed Haldor to be the most wonderful person in all of Middle-earth, how she had even fallen in love with him. Éomer listened carefully, saying not a word, and for that she was grateful. But when she came to her first night in the Elf's tent, and told him of how he had threatened her with the children's lives before removing her leggings, his eyes flashed dangerously. The hand on her arm was gripping so tightly that she winced—but it was the shame and disgrace that hurt more.

Éomer looked like he would murder someone as she continued her tale, telling him about the knife Haldor had so frequently used on her, how he had once made her best friend do it. She did not mention Borogor's name, for she could not bear to say it aloud, yet her brother let the matter pass by. Indeed, he soon forgot it as she shakily recounted Haldor informing her that she was an experiment, and even more so as she told him about Hammel and the Elf taking a walk together.

Here Gúthwyn faltered, hardly able to get the words out. She could not believe she had played so easily into Haldor's hands, and it was almost too embarrassing to say how he had manipulated her into going to his tent for information. But she gritted her teeth and shared her humiliation with Éomer anyway. Once or twice, she glanced up at him; he was silent, yet his eyes were so dark that she soon quailed and lowered her gaze.

The story only became harder as she went on, telling him of Haldor's countless beatings and the innumerable sessions in his tent. All too soon, she came to the Elf tying her up against the wall, naked, and leaving her there until she begged for her life. The tears swelled within her again, so that she could barely see her own trembling hands before her, and this time she did not even dare look at Éomer. She could only imagine how pathetic he thought her, for giving in to Haldor's whispers and roaming hands so easily; she could only imagine the shame he would say she had brought upon the family, how she was a miserable disgrace.

Still, he spoke no word. Gúthwyn was beginning to struggle with her sentences, stumbling over them and at times having to start entire events over again. She nearly threw up as she told him about how Haldor had forced her to eat her own vomit, how he had then made her eat an entire slab of the foul meat, all before he allowed her to return to the tent. But then, as she began saying how Lumren had attacked her one night, she realized her body was shaking uncontrollably. What Haldor had done to her because of that… what _she_ had done…

She leaned over, clutching at her stomach and almost gagging. It was costing her every ounce of pride she no longer had to admit to Éomer how much of a whore his sister was. But as a hand was placed on her back, she whispered hoarsely, "He told me… he told me to get on my knees in front of him…" Her voice was fading, so that her brother had to lean in to hear her. "He told me t-t-to… to p-p-_please­_ him…"

And then Haldor was inside her mouth; he had fistfuls of her hair in either hand, and he was pulling her closer… She could not escape; she thought she was going to choke… Then there was a bitter liquid everywhere, and he pushed her away from him… She was dying, surely—no pride left, nothing, just her pathetically limp body crawling towards the door…

Gúthwyn buried her face in her hands. She felt as if she were about to vomit. The tears were stinging at her eyelids, burning so ferociously that she very nearly let them spill over. But Haldor had said that it was weak, and she had already disgraced herself. If she did so again, what would Éomer say? What would he think of her?

Why she kept speaking, she did not know. Even when her voice cracked and faded, even when she was fighting tooth and nail against the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her, she sought to finish the story. Éomer already knew that she had slain him; but there was one final piece, one that she could not stop herself from saying even if she had tried. For almost a year, she had kept this shame bottled inside her, thinking back to it in the dark nights and feeling a small part of her die with each memory.

"When… When I returned… H-He w-was _dead_… H-Haldor was there, a-and I…"

Through all of this, Éomer had not said a word. Gúthwyn was beginning to feel it in the depths of her stomach: He was disappointed. Angry with her. Embarrassed to be her brother. And nothing that she told him now would change that; what she was about to say, what she was about to tell him, would be what made him cast her away. But she could not stop herself from bursting out:

"_I-I made love to him!_"

She met Éomer's eyes then. They were filled with disgust and hatred, only augmented as tears started blurring her vision. "I-I…" She staggered to her feet as if drunk. What had she been thinking? How could she have told him all this? _What have I done?_ she moaned silently, taking a quaking step towards the door.

A hand closed about her wrist. "Gúthwyn," Éomer said, his breathing ragged. "Come here."

She could not disobey him, and sat back down. Then she gasped, all the air leaving her body: He had wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her to his chest. Confusion washed over her, and this time she had to blink twice as fast to keep the tears at bay. "A-Are you not m-mad?" she asked, waiting for his rejection with a terrified heart.

"Mad?" he repeated harshly, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The lump in her throat was too much to bear—any minute, she felt as if she were going to cry. _No!_ she yelled at herself. _Crying is weak!_

For a moment, there was silence. Then he growled, "Yes."

Her heart froze.

"If you had not already killed that… that _bastard,_ I would have hunted him down and ripped him _limb_ from _limb_," Éomer snarled, his hold on her painful. "How he treated you was despicable. It makes me sick to my stomach to hear of all that he did!"

"W-What about m-me? A-Are you a-angry with me, t-too?" she had to know, utterly bewildered as to why he had not ridiculed and scorned her for her deeds.

Yet Éomer was the one who now seemed perplexed. His arms lowered, and he turned her around so that he was gazing directly into her eyes. She shivered uncontrollably, wanting to look away. "Why would you think such a thing?" he demanded, gripping her shoulders.

Her lips were trembling, try as she might to stop them. "I-I th-thought," she replied, each word a gasp, "th-that everything I-I did w-w-would make you… th-that you would be… a-a-_ashamed_… b-because I am a-a-a _whore_… I-It was why I did-did not sh-show myself at f-first, because I-I thought you w-would hate me…"

"Did you think I would turn you away," Éomer asked, his eyes narrowing, "because of how that monster tortured you?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Gúthwyn, you are my sister!" Éomer exclaimed, looking aghast. "I love you and Éowyn more than all of Middle-earth! Nothing will change that! How could you think I would abandon you?"

Her chest was heaving up and down with sobs, none of which had escaped her yet. Gúthwyn screwed her face up against the tears, trying to hide her face from her brother's piercing gaze. All of the weight of the past four years had accumulated so heavily on her shoulders that she thought she would never be rid of it… what she would not give to cast it away…

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said quietly, cupping her chin with a strong hand, "you do not have to mask your grief."

Frantically, she shook her head. If the tears came now… She could not even contemplate it.

"You are home," Éomer continued, his voice low; "no one will think the worse of you."

Something wet began sliding down her cheeks. Gúthwyn gasped as she started crying, incapable of stopping herself. With a muffled howl of revulsion, she buried her face in Éomer's chest. Arms wrapped around her, drawing her close to his warmth and protection. Her body shook in his grasp, frail and defeated by Haldor's abuse. Everything the Elf had done to her was pouring down her face, soaking the fabric of her brother's shirt.

"I-I feel so _disgusting,_" she choked out, and a fresh wave of tears burst forth from her eyes.


	8. Assurances

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eight:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Eight**

"Gúthwyn?"

She stirred, turning over as her eyes slowly began fluttering. Something warm and thick was on top of her; she did not want to wake up. But her name was persistently repeated, until finally a cold blast of air hit her body.

Sitting up, she looked around her in confusion. She was on a strange bed, and someone had drawn the comforters back. Sighing softly, Gúthwyn glanced over to her left; Éomer was standing beside her, already dressed for the day. "Good afternoon," he said.

That was when the memories of the previous night flooded through her. Her face turned hot with self-loathing and embarrassment, and she turned away so that she did not have to meet Éomer's eyes. Her own felt puffy—had she truly cried herself to sleep?

"Gúthwyn?" His hand was under her chin, lifting it up so that she was gazing directly at him. She cringed, trying to pull away, but he would not release her. "None of what happened was your fault," Éomer told her firmly. "Do you understand that?"

Shaking her head, she whispered, "If I had not been so _stupid,_ so _foolish_—"

"No," he cut her off, putting his other hand on her shoulder and shaking it slightly. "You deserved none of his abuse, none of it! No one should have to go through what you suffered—not you, not Éowyn, no one!"

Gúthwyn stared dully at a point beyond his shoulder. He must have been saying this because he was her brother, and brothers were supposed to protect their younger sisters. How could it not have been her due to receive what Haldor had given her, especially after all that she had done? In her dream, Haldor had said she was not even worthy of being called a whore; despite his words, was Éomer disgusted with her as well?

"What can I do to make you see that?" Éomer asked then, his voice quiet and desperate.

Her head bowed, Gúthwyn slid off of the bed. Trembling, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, needing someone to hold her. And he did. Gently he cradled her to his chest, rocking her slowly back and forth. Even when a few tears trickled onto the fabric of his shirt, he did not say anything. For a long time they stood there, until at last she looked up and murmured, "Thank you."

Éomer gazed down at her, stroking her hair. "If you ever wish to talk about anything, I will be here," he replied seriously.

Gúthwyn nodded, a small, hesitant smile of relief coming over her. "Éomer?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"W-Will you not tell Théoden about… about Haldor?" She did not want him to know the extent of her humiliation; she did not think she would be able to stand his pity.

"Of course not," her brother promised.

"Y-You can tell Éowyn, if you want…" she said shakily.

Éomer cupped her chin in his hand. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" he inquired, searching her eyes intently.

Numbly, she shook her head.

"Did you ever carry his child?"

Her heart stopped, and instinctively she shuddered at such a thought. After the shock of Haldor taking her to his bed had worn off, the worry that she would become pregnant had always been somewhere in the back of her mind, though nothing like her fear whenever he so much as looked at her. Each month when a red stain showed itself on her leggings, she had breathed a little sigh of relief. Somehow, he had not managed to beget her with a child—it was that, more than anything, that had cemented her belief that the Valar did at times protect her.

"So I am an uncle?" Éomer asked, his face thunderstruck. Gúthwyn realized that he had misinterpreted her silence, and hastened to shake her head.

"No," she whispered, watching as his eyes widened. "I never—no."

He exhaled slowly. "You had me worried," he muttered, and then frowned. "Though if you had a child, I would not shun my niece or nephew."

"I know," Gúthwyn replied, and rested her head on his chest. For several minutes neither of them spoke a word.

Eventually, Éomer said, "It is well past noon. You should get dressed."

She pulled away from him, and glanced around her brother's room. "Where did you sleep last night?" she asked suddenly.

He pointed to a hard wooden chair, and she felt a flush of guilt creeping over her. "I-I am sorry," she muttered, embarrassed. "You could have woken me; I would have gone back…"

"I did not want to wake you," he answered, "nor send you away after all that you had told me."

Words could not describe her gratitude towards him. "Thank you," she said again.

He smiled sadly at her. "It was the least I could do." Letting her go, he reached behind him towards the night table and picked up a bundle of clothing. "I brought these for you," he told her, and handed her the garments. "Shall we expect you for lunch?"

She nodded. Éomer patted her briefly on the shoulder and turned away, moving to the door so she could have some privacy. Just before he left, he glanced back. "What was your nightmare of?" he inquired.

Gúthwyn shivered, and her response was subdued. "Haldor showed me the bodies of everyone I loved… he shoved me onto them, and the maggots crawled all over me…"

"Are you all right?" Éomer asked quietly: her face had paled.

"Yes," she answered, unfolding a grey dress. "I-I will be fine."

He bowed, and left the room.

* * *

It was high afternoon. The sun blazed overhead, rays of light streaming onto the warriors' backs as they trained on the fields of Edoras. Even though Helm's Deep had been saved, Gandalf had cautioned against letting revelry cloud their judgment of the eastern threat. And so many of the men had been practicing all day, most with sore heads and nauseous stomachs from drinking too much at last night's feast.

As a matter of fact, the wizard was not with them. When Gúthwyn had spoken to Théoden, her uncle had told her that in the middle of the night—while she had been dreaming of Haldor—something had happened with the strange ball that Pippin had found in Isengard. Apparently, the young Hobbit had stolen it from the wizard, and tried to look into it. Whatever he had seen, and Théoden was not sure of it, for Gandalf had only given a brief explanation, it had proved a grave mistake: Sauron had looked upon the Halfling.

How this was possible, she did not know, but it seemed that this ball was a means of communication in some way. And if Saruman had been using it, it made sense that Sauron was talking with him. A link between the two towers, Gúthwyn thought grimly, and one that might cause them many a grievance. Pippin had stumbled across this connection; the pain from Sauron interrogating him had caused him to cry out, awakening everyone in the throne room.

The very next morning, while Gúthwyn was sleeping in Éomer's room, Gandalf had left Rohan, taking Pippin with him. Théoden said that they were leaving to warn Gondor of an attack, which Pippin had seen plans of in the globe. In addition, the wizard had warned her uncle to have Rohan ready for war, should the ancient beacons of Gondor be lit in a call for aid that had not been given for many years.

Gúthwyn sighed. She missed Pippin already. And since his departure, poor Merry had been extremely gloomy, hardly saying a word to her at lunch. She felt awful for him, though there was nothing she could do; she had not even gotten a chance to say goodbye to the young Halfling. Once again, she sighed, though the sound was obscured by sparring warriors.

To Gúthwyn, it was strange not to be joining them. She had not picked up a sword since Helm's Deep, and she promised herself that as soon as she woke up tomorrow, she would head to the training grounds and practice—regardless of what Éomer or Théoden said.

At the moment, however, she was watching Lebryn spar with Gamling, who had been given the instructions of testing the young man to see his worth. So far, Lebryn was doing well. Only a few times had Gamling managed to get under his guard.

"Do you think they will accept him?" she asked Cobryn in an undertone. He was standing beside her, observing the proceedings with a careful eye.

Her friend glanced over to where Éomer and Théoden stood. Neither of them made any secret of the fact that they were scrutinizing Lebryn, sizing up his skill and determining his prowess. "They need all the men they can get, and Lebryn is talented," Cobryn muttered. "I would be surprised if they did not."

Lebryn continued to fight against Gamling. In any case, Gúthwyn thought, his endurance was bound to win him some admiration: Not once had he shown signs of tiring, though the test had started almost an hour ago.

"Where did you go last night?" Cobryn asked then, still keeping his voice low. "The party went until well past midnight, but I did not see you after we spoke briefly."

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I got tired," she said stiffly. He did not press the subject, well aware that when she wanted to tell him, she would.

At one point, Gamling bested Lebryn in a skirmish, and Cobryn intervened. "If I may, my lord," he said, hobbling forward. Some of the onlookers chuckled amongst themselves, but Gúthwyn smiled, knowing that his appearance was extremely deceptive.

Lebryn silently handed the stick over to his friend. Cobryn faced Gamling. "Will you do that strike again?" he asked.

Looking somewhat surprised, Gamling obeyed. Cobryn blocked it easily. "This is what you want to do," he told Lebryn. Now, the two sticks were meeting high above the men, neither of them having the clear mastery. "From there…"

With a sudden motion, so swift and strong that Gamling could not prevent it, Cobryn flicked his wrist and used the leverage to swing both of their sticks downwards. Gamling's ended up on the bottom, pointing harmlessly to the side, while Cobryn's was now aimed directly at the older guard's stomach.

"…the element of surprise is perhaps your greatest friend," Cobryn finished, and returned the stick to Lebryn.

A broad grin spread across Gúthwyn's face as the men surrounding them muttered in shock. Lebryn did not seem fazed at all, but Gamling looked thunderstruck as Cobryn bowed politely to him. "Thank you, my lord," her friend said.

"You, Cobryn!" Éomer called, just as the man was beginning to turn away. Slowly, Cobryn turned back to face him.

"Yes, my lord?" he asked.

"Why are you not practicing with him?"

Cobryn regarded her brother for a moment, and then said, "Because, with all due respect, my lord, I would look absolutely foolish trying to fight with my leg."

Théoden chuckled. "I suppose you are right," he replied, "though I would say that you are far from foolish."

Cobryn limped back over to Gúthwyn, and she smiled at him. "I did not say anything to the other men," she whispered, "and you can see that they are quite surprised."

"Never judge a sword by its sheath," Cobryn answered, smirking.

Lebryn's practice went on for about five more minutes until Éomer suddenly said, "What do you think, Aragorn?"

Gúthwyn turned around and saw the Ranger making his way towards them, Éowyn at his side. Just behind them were Legolas and Gimli. She tried to ignore the shiver of revulsion sweeping through her upon seeing the Elf. After last night with Éomer, reliving all that Haldor had done to her, she was in no mood to speak to him. All day, she had been trying to forget about her nightmare and the following events. To some extent she had succeeded, but she did not wish to endanger that, and so she turned away from Legolas.

At the sound of Éomer's voice, Aragorn paused, examining Lebryn closely. The young man stared just as determinedly back at him, clearly not at all pleased with how so many warriors were surveying him as if he were a prized horse.

"Hold that stick out," Aragorn said at last. Lebryn looked askance at him, and then lifted it up, holding it so that it was pointing directly in between the Ranger's eyes. His own gaze was smoldering with barely contained fire.

Aragorn started walking towards the man, coming within an inch of the stick before pausing. Not once did Lebryn move, and after a moment Aragorn said, "He will be a good warrior. I saw him fighting from above."

Those who stood on the dais could look upon the training grounds; Gúthwyn herself had done so frequently, in the days where she had been fiercely envious of her brother and sister for knowing how to use a sword.

Éowyn came up beside her then. "Hello," Gúthwyn greeted her, smiling. "Where have you been all afternoon?"

They had eaten lunch together, but afterwards they had gone their separate ways—Éowyn to the stables, Gúthwyn to find Cobryn and Lebryn—and they had not seen each other since.

"Mostly in the stables," Éowyn admitted. "Windfola was being particularly rowdy."

Gúthwyn grinned in amusement. Much like its owner, her sister's horse was very headstrong, and not easily subdued. "I trust not too troublesome?" she asked. Before them, Lebryn was speaking with Gamling. She prayed that things were going well.

"Not terribly," Éowyn replied. "When I had groomed him, I went back into the Golden Hall, and saw Aragorn there."

A clouded look came over her eyes. Gúthwyn knew that her sister was still enamored of the Ranger, and awkwardly cast around for something to say. She did not want to dwell on talk of Aragorn, especially when his heart was already given to Arwen. "Have you seen Tun?" she asked at last. Her champion had not been anywhere in sight when she had eaten, nor had she seen him on the training grounds.

Sighing, Éowyn said, "He had scouting duty, and will not return for another day or two. He was searching for you before he left, but you were still sleeping."

Gúthwyn was slightly disappointed that she had not gotten the chance to bid her friend farewell, yet she would see him soon enough. He had his duties to do, after all, and she could not always be by his side.

At that moment, Lebryn and Cobryn came over to them. "Your uncle says I can train with the men," Lebryn told her, looking pleased.

"That is wonderful!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, smiling. "Now, when do I get to spar with you?"

Lebryn snorted. "You are a _lady_ now," he said with a smirk on his face. "I would not want to ruin your dress or your hair arrangement."

She slapped him across the face, earning a wince from him and a pair of wide eyes from Éowyn. "You know fully well that I can hold my own against you, Lebryn," she retorted, only half jesting. "Do not make me humiliate you tomorrow."

"Aye, it would be best for you to curb your tongue, my friend," Cobryn said lightly, though he placed a warning hand on Lebryn's shoulder. "Gúthwyn, I think your brother wishes to speak with you."

When Gúthwyn glanced over, she saw Éomer approaching them. "Excuse me," she said, and with an apologetic nod at Lebryn she stepped away from the group. "Yes, brother?" she asked as he drew nearer, wondering if he had seen her with Lebryn.

"How have you been holding up?" he inquired gently, his voice low so that the others could not hear him.

She looked down. "I am fine," she answered, only somewhat truthfully. "A-At least, I will be."

"Are you sure?" he pressed quietly, beginning to move away from the training grounds. Gúthwyn followed him, as reluctant as he was to discuss these matters in public.

"Yes," she said, sighing. They were making their way towards the stables. "I feel… different, somehow."

She could not describe what it was. It was not that she had left her past behind her—no, it was as much a part of her as was her present, perhaps even more—nor that she was the worse for telling Éomer her tale. Yet for reasons that she did not know, and to an undetermined effect, something had changed within her. It was not a big thing, of that she was certain, though it seemed to her that there was a task she had to do, a task that she had put off.

Éomer glanced at her, but she did not say anything as she followed him into the stables.


	9. Burdens

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Reunions will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Nine:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Nine**

As Gúthwyn and Éomer entered the stables, the comforting sound of gently whinnying horses met her ears. Several stableboys were scurrying about, feeding the animals and ensuring that their water troughs were filled. All of them bowed respectively upon the siblings' arrival; many of them waved cheerfully at Gúthwyn. She smiled, returning the gestures whole-heartedly.

Heorot was in a stall close to the door, and she slipped inside it. "Hello, my friend," she murmured, coming to stand beside him. He was chewing intently on some oats, but still raised his head and sniffed her eagerly all the same. "No, I do not have anything today," she said, grinning. "You will have to be content with my company."

Taking a brush from a nearby shelf, she began working her way through Heorot's mane, which had somehow gotten rather tangled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éomer doing the same with Firefoot. The two of them were in adjacent stalls.

"How was Heorot treated, brother, while I was away?" she asked at length, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

Éomer looked up at her, pausing mid-stroke to think. "Well," he replied eventually. "He was eager to go to battle, and if we sought to leave him behind he sometimes made such a racket that one of the Riders would have to relent."

Gúthwyn smirked, pleased that Heorot had been so persistent. "Good boy," she praised her horse. "You and I should not be kept out of war."

Her words had been to Heorot, but she uttered them too loud. Éomer's eyes narrowed. "You have both seen enough," he said.

Gúthwyn did not respond, not wanting to accidentally reveal that she had been at Helm's Deep. Instead, she focused her attention on Heorot, grooming him carefully. She and Éomer were silent, and not a word was spoken by either of them until ten minutes later.

"My lord?"

Both of them glanced up to see one of the stableboys hastily making his way over to them. He stopped in front of Firefoot's stall, bowing deeply. "The king wishes to speak with you in Meduseld," he said.

Éomer nodded. "Thank you," he responded, and patted his horse's flanks before exiting the stall. Gúthwyn made to follow, but her brother held his hand up. "It is likely nothing important," he said. "Enjoy your free time while you have it; I shall see you soon."

It was not her place to argue. Slightly frustrated, she watched as Éomer left the stables, closing the door behind him without a backwards glance. Silence fell, and as she looked around she realized that she was alone. All of the stableboys were doing some errand or other, and none were left inside.

Her thoughts turned to something she had told her brother earlier. "I feel… different," she had said. Even now, she was keenly aware of that strange sensation. She could not understand it. It was as if there was something that she had to do, a task she had to complete—maybe something that she owed someone? Yet she was not in debt, and indeed had little to give anyone. Perhaps she had forgotten to do a chore?

It was not until that night, when sleep evaded her, that she realized what it was.

* * *

Gúthwyn wrapped the warm blankets around her, closing her eyes firmly in hopes of capturing some much-needed rest. But only a few seconds had passed before she resignedly opened them again. She was wide awake, unable to fall asleep. A part of her was afraid that if she allowed herself to enter the land of dreams, images of Haldor would torment her mind.

At the thought of him, she shivered, and curled into a tight ball. Despite reassuring Éomer that she was all right, her mind was still a prisoner of his piercing blue gaze, his cold and pale hands that caressed her stomach in the dark. Even with three candles in her room, burning brightly in an attempt to banish her old fears, the shadows seemed to loom over her, bringing with them the familiar whispers in her ears.

_Whore… you are worthless…_

"No," she whispered, turning over restlessly, but she could not shake away the accusations. Her thoughts shifted to memories of Dîrbenn, swearing at her, screaming that Borogor had been planning on marrying her.

Gúthwyn sat up, knowing that sleep was not going to come to her. Already, her vision was starting to blur with tears; frantically, she kicked at the covers until they dislodged themselves from her. They landed on the floor with a soft _thump_, and she sighed heavily. Now shivering, she stood up, crossing the room to where her pack lay on a small table. She rummaged through it, and at last pulled out Beregil's book. As she was lifting it up, "The Warrior" slipped out and fell to the ground.

More distressed by this than she had any reason to be, she hastily bent down and picked the paper off of the floor, cringing at the sight of its torn edges. Tenderly, she replaced it, closing the book gently. She would not read it now; she would go outside, with the appearance of the stars to console her, and turn through its pages there.

Once more, she reached into Borogor's pack, this time withdrawing his cloak and fastening it around her shoulders. Returning briefly to her bed, she searched underneath it with her foot for a pair of slippers. The ones that she pulled out were a dark green, and hardly matched her white nightgown, but she could not have cared less.

She did not take a candle with her as she left her room, for dying embers of the daytime fires were always upon the hearth; furthermore, there were a few torches lining the walls, and they would be enough to see by. So she crept into the hallway with only Beregil's book in her hand. This time, she was not a terrified shadow scuttling through the passage, afraid of nightmares that sought to pursue her even in her waking. Yet she still did not walk without caution.

As she entered the throne room, Gúthwyn thought she could hear the sounds of low voices talking. Curiously, she inched farther into the room, half-hidden by a large pillar. She peered around it, scanning all of the corners and the tables. Then she paled: Aragorn was sitting at a table, a pipe in his mouth creating plumes of smoke that rose around his frame… and Legolas was directly across from him, his back to her. The Elf's silhouette was edged with moonlight.

For a moment, she stood as if frozen, unable to move. Aragorn and Legolas were speaking quietly, and she knew that she should not stand there without showing herself, yet she remained where she was. It was not as if she could hear what they were saying, for they were not that close to her and talking in near-whispers, but it was still not polite to keep herself hidden.

She was debating whether or not to return to her room when Aragorn glanced up and caught sight of her, skulking behind the pillar. His eyes widened in mild surprise, though he did not say anything. Legolas twisted around; his gaze flickered throughout the room, and finally landed on her.

Having no choice but to go over to them and explain what she had been doing, Gúthwyn slowly left the cover of the pillar and drew closer to their table. As she walked, her footsteps drew no sound from the wooden floors; nor did Aragorn or Legolas make any while they watched her. She could not read the expressions on their faces.

When she came to the table, Legolas shifted over, offering her a seat. For a long time, she hesitated, unsure of what to do. At last, she lowered herself gingerly onto the bench, clenching all of the muscles in her body. She wrapped the cloak tighter around her, and kept Beregil's book clutched firmly in her hand. Legolas glanced at it.

"I-I could not sleep," she muttered. "I did not mean to…"

Trailing off, she looked at Aragorn. He took the pipe out of his mouth. "Understandable," he said kindly, setting the pipe on the table. "Night oft brings new disturbances."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, all too keenly aware that Legolas was only a foot away from her.

"Éomer said you had a troubling dream last night," Aragorn spoke, and even though his voice was gentle she stiffened.

"D-Did h-he say what it was a-about?" Gúthwyn asked nervously, her cheeks turning red. She chanced a look at Legolas, but his face had not changed.

Aragorn shook his head. "Not to Théoden, whom he was speaking to: I happened to overhear them."

She trembled in embarrassment. "Oh," she mumbled.

"Are you all right?" Legolas inquired softly, the first words he had said to her that day.

Gúthwyn glanced at him, wondering if there was any laughter hidden within his eyes. But she could not meet them for long, and soon she looked down at the table. "Y-Yes," she replied shakily. In an effort to steer the conversation away from herself, she asked, "W-What has you two up at this hour?"

She lifted her head to gaze at Aragorn as she said this, knowing that he would be the one deciding if she should be told. Already, he was looking as if he had doubts. "Middle-earth is heading for dark days," he sighed, fiddling with his pipe. As he did, she saw for the first time that he bore a ring on one of his fingers. It was silver, with two snakes intertwined; one held up a golden flower, while the other consumed it. She had never seen its like before.

Aragorn saw her staring at it, but the only thing he said was, "I would not wish to disturb you. Since our return to Rohan, you have been happy, and it is not my desire to cloud such joy with grim tidings."

"I would rather be grim and know what is to come than happy and unaware," Gúthwyn responded. "Besides, I am familiar with dark thoughts, far more so than merry ones. And did I not travel with the Company on its long and toilsome road? Nay, Aragorn, do not conceal from me your news."

Aragorn sighed. "I can see you will not be deterred," he said. "Did you hear of Pippin?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and a slight frown appeared on his face. "Then you know that he went with Gandalf to warn the Lord Denethor of the Enemy's attack?"

Again, she nodded. "If Sauron does indeed aim to strike the White City," Aragorn continued, "he will use almost all of his forces in hopes of a swift, decisive victory. You have seen for yourself how many men he has in his army, but do you know the numbers of the Orcs?"

She shook her head. They did not come into the northern region of Udûn, where the humans were encamped. As a matter of fact, she had not seen any up close during her entire stay there.

"We are not dealing with ten thousand," Aragorn said. "This is not Saruman's army marching on Helm's Deep, which is a tiny battle in the strands of time. A hundred thousand could easily lie behind the Black Gate—maybe twice that number."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. She could not even begin to imagine anything worse than Helm's Deep, and yet Aragorn was telling her that Sauron's forces were over ten times bigger than Saruman's.

"As you are aware of," Aragorn said, leaning close and lowering his voice, "Rohan in its full strength cannot hope to have twenty thousand. Gondor has been weakened over the years. Perhaps four or five thousand men could she get from her allies, but it would be foolish to hope for more. In Minas Tirith, I do not think there could possibly be three thousand able-bodied men. All told, at best we are facing a hundred thousand Orcs with twenty-eight thousand Men."

Gúthwyn blanched. "So there is no hope," she said, her palms beginning to sweat. "Is that what you mean to say?"

"They said there was no hope for Helm's Deep," Aragorn replied. "Are we not alive today?"

Legolas glanced at her briefly, and her cheeks colored the slightest bit. Aragorn had a point, but the numbers they had faced at Helm's Deep had been ten times smaller.

"Do you think we would win such a fight?" she asked softly.

For a long time, Aragorn looked at her. "Unless help unlooked-for comes," he said at last, "I do not think so."

His words hit Gúthwyn harder than an iron fist slamming into her stomach. "Then if my brother rides out," she breathed, quivering, "he goes to his death?"

Aragorn did not respond, but his eyes were sorrowful. Nearly choking on her horror, Gúthwyn pressed a fist over her mouth, biting painfully into one of her fingers so that she did not cry out. For nearly eight years, she had thought that her brother was dead. To be with him for a week or two, only to have him torn away from her again, was more than she could bear. And what of Tun? Her people? Innocent boys who had not seen fifteen winters?

"Gúthwyn, Gondor has not lit its beacons yet." Legolas' voice, sounding far away, filtered in through her ears amidst the screams and groans of her people dying on a distant battlefield. "We do not know… They may not call for aid. This is only guesswork."

She was unable to say anything, but Gondor could not afford to _not_ light the beacons. And when she did, Éomer would ride into battle, at the head of one of the columns. He would meet his death there—how could he not?

"Gúthwyn," Legolas said calmly. "Do not let despair hold you too tightly. Your people are valiant and fierce. If worse comes to worse, they will fall in honor."

His words managed to soothe her somewhat. Honor was better than nothing; death in battle was better than death in retreat. Shakily, she lowered her hand. Before, she had wanted to go outside and read Beregil's poems. Now, she only wanted to fall asleep and cast away the unexpected burden and weariness that Aragorn had laid upon her, if unwillingly.

Slowly, she stood up. "I-I think I am g-going to turn in," she said, a flush coming over her as she thought of how pathetic she must have looked in their eyes.

"I am sorry that you had to hear this," Aragorn replied, inclining his head. "But for your insistence, I would have never told you."

"I know," she whispered, and in spite of everything a brief smile came to her face.

"Gúthwyn?"

It was Legolas who had spoken; she turned to him in confusion, wondering what he could want. "Yes?"

"Goodnight," he said quietly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. "I hope you sleep well."

In that moment, Gúthwyn realized that she owed Legolas an apology.


	10. Apology

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ten:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Ten**

"Gúthwyn, wake up!"

Someone was urgently shaking at her shoulders, pulling her abruptly from her sleep. Gúthwyn groaned, trying to move away. She had just closed her eyes a few seconds ago…

"Gúthwyn, hurry, we have no time to waste!"

Realizing that it was Éowyn, she blinked in rapid confusion. Her sister's face came into focus above her, harried and evidently in a rush.

"Éowyn, it cannot be six," she grumbled, struggling to push herself up into a sitting position.

"It is almost nine!" her sister exclaimed, whipping the bedcovers off of Gúthwyn with frightening speed. "Come on, get dressed!"

Now Gúthwyn was fully awake. "What is happening?" she asked, sliding off of the bed and crossing over to the set of drawers.

"The beacons have been lit—Théoden has ordered all able-bodied men in Edoras to be ready to ride within the hour!"

The dress that Gúthwyn had been reaching for slipped out of her hands. "The beacons?" she gasped, staring at her sister in horror. She noticed that Éowyn was wearing one of her brown riding outfits. With her golden hair tumbling loose down her back, she looked as beautiful as always.

"Yes!" her sister cried in exasperation, impatient at Gúthwyn's delay. "Come! You need to eat breakfast, assemble your things, and get Heorot saddled—yet you are not even dressed!"

"Sorry," Gúthwyn mumbled, now trying to find a riding dress. Behind her, Éowyn sighed.

"No, I am sorry," she said, sounding regretful. "I did not mean to snap at you like that. It has just been a long day already, and it is not even noon."

As the oldest niece of the king, Gúthwyn could only imagine the kind of duties her sister was given in a time like this. "I understand," she replied softly, and withdrew a pair of leggings from the drawers.

Éowyn turned around, and she swiftly changed, pulling on the grey riding dress over her pants. She also strapped Framwine around her waist, though she did not expect combat. "Done," she said; Éowyn was already speaking as she faced her again.

"Now, let us go and get you some breakfast—"

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn interjected hastily. With the nerves running through her, she would not be able to eat anything. Her hands were already shaking.

"Are you sure?" Éowyn asked concernedly, looking worried.

Gúthwyn nodded, and started gathering her things. She was shouldering Borogor's pack when she stopped. "Éowyn?"

"Yes?"

"When Éomer goes to war…" Gúthwyn paused for a moment, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. "Do you think he will return?"

Aragorn might as well have told her no. But she needed to hear it from her sister—whatever Éowyn said, she would believe.

Her sister's face seemed to harden. "I do not know," she replied; "yet the Enemy's numbers are bound to be far greater than our own."

At that moment, a bell rang from outside, shrill even to their ears. Éowyn jumped, and opened the door so fast that it nearly bounced off of the wall back into place. "Come," she urged Gúthwyn. "We must be going. Are you sure you do not want anything to eat?"

"I am sure," Gúthwyn answered, and followed her sister out the door. "Where are the Riders to muster?" she asked as they strode down the passage.

"Dunharrow," Éowyn called over her shoulder, almost stopping Gúthwyn in her tracks.

Dunharrow. It was a stronghold about twenty miles away from Edoras, as the crow flies, though the road to it ran alongside the curving River Snowbourn. Gúthwyn had never been to this place, but she knew much of it from old maps and drawings of it that she used to stare at. In order to reach the encampment, they would have to pass through Harrowdale, the Snowbourn valley, which led them to a series of steps carven in the stone. This feature was known as the Stair of the Hold, and wound its way up a plateau to the Firienfeld. Here, the main strength of the men would be gathered.

But perhaps the most remarkable thing about Dunharrow, which was near impossible for any foe to take, was not a part of its defense. When one entered the Firienfeld, two lines of stones formed a path that went all the way to the Dimholt, a small forest of dark trees. Beyond this feature was a place where no one dared to go: the foot of the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain. Its shadow hung over the Firienfeld, quieting the men's chatter and the horses' whinnying. There, it was said, were the Paths of the Dead, though none knew what lay behind their entrance. The last person to go down the Paths was Baldor, son of the former king Brego; he had never been seen again.

"Gúthwyn!"

The voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she realized that she was standing in the doorway to the throne room. It was near empty, as most of the men were outside. Glancing up, she saw Cobryn making his way over to her. For the past two nights he had been sleeping off to the side, on the floor, as guests were accustomed to do.

"This is the third time I have called you," Cobryn said, standing beside her. "Is something wrong?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I was just thinking," she replied, and then frowned. "Are you to ride with us?" she asked.

Cobryn grinned. "Unfortunately for my legs, yes," he answered. "Lebryn as well." The bell sounded again. "Let us go! I am ready; have you had anything to eat?"

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn said for the second time in five minutes.

"You should eat at least something," Cobryn urged her as they started making their way towards the doors after Éowyn. "You are too thin."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted. Her friend opened his mouth to argue, but they came to the doors then, and she determinedly pushed them open. Bright sunlight streamed down upon them; above, the sky was a gorgeous blue, with hardly a cloud to mar it. As Gúthwyn's eyes adjusted to the light, she found herself looking down upon that which she had never seen before.

It seemed as if all the people in Edoras were gathered before Meduseld, but geared up for war and on horseback. The guards were foremost of the enormous group, wearing their shining armor and the traditional green cloaks of service. She could not identify a single one of them, for their faces were obscured by their proud helmets with the horses' manes trailing down the back.

Behind them were all the people. Their armor and weapons were not of as good a make as the guards, and some of them were going to battle in only their mail shirts and leggings, but they were ready to fight all the same. As far as her eye could see they stretched backwards, filling nearly all of Edoras. Not one of them looked afraid of what was to come; they faced it stoically. A surge of pride swept through her, such as she had not felt for years.

"This is amazing," she breathed, glowing with happiness.

Cobryn smiled to see her face. "Are you ready to get your horse?" he asked.

Gúthwyn nodded, and the two of them began walking down the stairs. "Have you seen my brother or the king?" she inquired as they went.

"I saw them earlier this morning, when Aragorn ran inside and told them about the beacons. Éomer left shortly after; Théoden went outside about half an hour before you woke up."

"It seems I missed a lot," she said, waving as they passed by Anborn.

"You slept too late, as usual," Cobryn replied, a grin on his face. "I see you have still not gotten rid of the habit."

Shrugging, Gúthwyn said, "I do not get much sleep at night." A small frown tugged at her lips as she remembered last night's disturbing conversation with Aragorn and Legolas. She had not been able to close her eyes for at least an hour after she had left them, mostly because she was terrified of what would happen to Éomer if the beacons were lit.

But part of the reason had been because she was thinking about her decision to apologize to the Elf: How could she do so after treating him so wrongly over the past few months? Would he even accept such an overdue thing? She was still afraid of him, and fearful of what he might do if she approached him, yet she had to try. No matter how grudgingly, she had to admit that she owed her life to him—he had helped her into the Hornburg during the battle of Helm's Deep when she could barely walk, and later had sewn up her wound. She had despised him on both accounts, and indeed still trembled at the thought of his hands touching her stomach, but he had not intended her any harm. At the very least, he deserved her thanks.

The door of the stables loomed up before her then, and Gúthwyn realized with a start that her musings had carried her all the way to her destination. Cobryn was still at her side. A guilty twinge came over her as she realized that she must have ignored him for the entire walk. "Do you have a horse?" she asked as they entered the building, in an attempt to redeem herself.

He nodded. "Gamling ended up giving Lebryn and I an impromptu riding lesson earlier, but I think we will manage."

Gúthwyn looked at him. "Had Lebryn ridden a horse before we left Isengard?" The young man was from the southern reaches of Gondor, where some of the people resembled those of Harad. It was not as civilized as Minas Tirith, that was for sure. She did not know much about Lebryn's home, except for that it was extremely hot.

"Once or twice," Cobryn replied. "He certainly did well enough today, and if worse comes to worse he can always ride with me."

Gúthwyn went over to Heorot then, and saw that one of the stableboys had readied him for the journey. She led him out, not mounting for the time being. There were many people she desired to find before the Rohirrim left Edoras. Tun, for one; he had returned too late last night for her to see him. Cobryn also wished to locate Lebryn, as the younger man was one of the few that he knew here.

Together, she and Cobryn made their way into the throng of Riders and their horses. They remained close to the Golden Hall, and as they searched for Lebryn she saw her sister. Éowyn was speaking with Aragorn, both of them preparing their horses. As she watched, the Ranger reached for a blanket covering much of Windfola's saddle. He lifted it up, and Gúthwyn caught the briefest glimpse of a sheathed sword before Éowyn pulled the blanket back over it.

"Ah, there he is!" Cobryn's exclamation drew her attention away from her sister, and Gúthwyn looked over to see Lebryn leading a dark horse towards them. He seemed none too comfortable with an animal following him, and kept casting suspicious glances at it. Unless it was her imagination, she thought she saw the tiniest gleam of amusement in the horse's eye.

At that moment, however, she saw someone over Lebryn's shoulder: Legolas. He was lightly stroking Arod's mane, talking to Gimli. The Dwarf was already seated upon the horse, and was far more at ease than she would have thought one of his people to be. Yet all too soon, her eyes fell back on Legolas, accompanied by the nervous clenching of her stomach. It was now or never—she had not been able to apologize to him last night, and she could not bear to shy away from him like a coward again.

"Excuse me," she said to Cobryn, and departed without another word, leading Heorot over to the Elf. Her hands trembled on the reins; Heorot snorted.

Gimli noticed her before Legolas did, and shouted a glad greeting. She returned it, though her words faltered when the Elf turned around and saw her. Steeling herself not to back down, she moved towards the friends, now twisting Heorot's reins in anxiety.

"Hello," Legolas said quietly, inclining his head. His eyes were guarded, and Gúthwyn could not read the expression in them. Instead she nodded, giving herself a second to calm down. She would have to say her apology in front of Gimli, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she opened her mouth. "I just… I-I just wanted…"

It was harder than she had thought to get the words out. Her cheeks turned red as she stuttered under Legolas' puzzled gaze. "I… I w-wanted to say—"

"Are you feeling all right?" Legolas inquired concernedly.

"I am sorry."

There. She had said it. Holding her breath, she watched him for his reaction, unsure of what it would be. Above them, Gimli looked confused, but for a moment Legolas' face did not change.

"Sorry?" he at last repeated, and Gúthwyn thought she saw a strange light flicker in his eyes. For the first time, it did not remind her of Haldor. This startled her, and then gave her courage. She nodded, swallowing her fears.

"F-For the way I have treated you," she said softly, and looked down, unable to meet his eyes any longer. "I… It was wrong, a-and you did not deserve it. I-I am sorry."

The only sounds around them were those of whinnying horses and assembling Riders. Gúthwyn stared at a patch of dirt by her feet, nervous about what he might think of her now. Maybe she had been wrong in coming to him. Maybe this whole conversation was foolish, and nothing that she could say would make a difference. Her eyes traveled to Legolas' boots, less than a yard from hers. An entire nest of butterflies sprang up within her stomach, not all of them unburdened with fear.

"Thank you, Gúthwyn of Rohan."

His gentle voice entered her ears; at first, she thought she had not heard him correctly. Her breathing shallow, she dared to glance up at him. She felt her eyes widen in surprise. He was smiling, the only time he had ever truly done so in her memory. And it struck her that she had never seen Haldor pleased before—not the kind of happiness that did not make her afraid.

In spite of herself, the corners of Gúthwyn's lips tugged upwards in a small mirror of his own. "I-I should be going," she managed, bowing her head. "But… thank you."

Having nothing else to do, she turned away, leading Heorot to where she had last seen Cobryn and Lebryn. Her entire body was trembling with nerves, still half unable to believe that she had approached the Elf in the first place. When she unclenched her right fist, it was covered in sweat.

"Gúthwyn!"

Startled, she looked around. A broad grin stretched over her face as she saw Tun navigating his horse over towards her. He wore his helmet, but she could tell it was him by his voice, and by the sling that he still used. Hastily, she mounted Heorot so that she might speak to him easier. "I missed you," she said as they neared each other, their horses barely five inches apart. "I wish I could have seen you off."

"Yet now we are together," Tun replied, "and that is compensation enough."

She blushed at the earnestness of his speech. No other woman in Middle-earth could hope for a better champion—Tun played the part perfectly, giving her so many sweet compliments that she often felt guilty for not having enough education to respond properly, at the same time watching over her closely.

As he was now. "Were you just speaking with Legolas?" he asked, frowning slightly.

Gúthwyn nodded, unintentionally shuddering: When she glanced over at the Elf, once again his profile had reminded her of Haldor's.

"I hope he was not bothering you," Tun said, narrowing his eyes at Legolas. His jaw tightened.

"No," Gúthwyn reassured him, her face coloring. "I-I was actually apologizing to him."

Tun glanced at her in surprise. "Whatever for, my lady?" he asked.

She sighed, trying to keep her true thoughts from her face. "I have not been too kind to him, I fear." Her mind was struggling with conflicting emotions, tearing her every which way until she surely thought she would burst in confusion. Legolas had not harmed her, and thus her fear and loathing of him was unreasonable. Yet whenever she looked at him, she could not help but cringe. He was a painful reminder of the one who had broken her, who had used her so cruelly and ruthlessly that she was never rid of his shadow.

"Are you all right?" Tun asked, reaching over and placing a hand on her arm to get her attention. For an instant, her carefully constructed mask of lady-like indifference wavered, and she felt strangely lonesome. She took her champion's hand, needing companionship; a sad smile came over her.

"I am fine," she answered quietly, lifting her troubled gaze over the mustering Riders. The bell had stopped sounding. It would not be long now.

Tun let go of her hand then, and when she looked at him he said, "Your brother is watching. It would not do for him to receive the wrong impression."

Gúthwyn followed his eyes and saw that Éomer was, indeed, scrutinizing the two of them. To her, he bore a sudden resemblance to a hawk; she said so in an undertone to Tun, who chuckled.

"Then I suppose that makes me the rabbit," he replied, bringing a small measure of happiness back to Gúthwyn.

"He knows that you are trustworthy," she said. "I would not worry overmuch."

Tun sighed then, seeming abashed. "As a matter of fact, my lady," he murmured, "I am afraid he does have a reason to be wary of me."

She knitted her eyebrows in puzzlement. "Why?"

"The party," Tun said, and she felt a cold chill creep over her stomach. That had been the night that she had dreamed of Haldor, memories of which had been triggered by Legolas. She had seen the Elf because she was trying to calm herself from…

Tun bowed his head. "I was too bold," he spoke, his voice hard with anger at himself. "I should not have… I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me."

"Tun, there is nothing to forgive," Gúthwyn said firmly. If anything, it was her own fault for overreacting—he was an honest man, and had been her best friend for years. He would have died before harming her. "Indeed, you hold your liquor remarkably well."

Her friend still looked upset. "You left afterwards," he reminded her, absent-mindedly swirling his thumb over the reins. "Was it because of that?"

"No," she hastened to tell him. "I was simply tired."

"Are you sure?" he asked, studying her carefully to make sure she was not lying.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment a voice rose up above all others, proud and ringing in the cold morning. Her heart leaped as she saw Éomer, turning Firefoot around to face the gates, urging the men forward. "Now is the hour!" he called. "Riders of Rohan, oaths you have taken! Now, fulfill them all! To lord and land!"

His words were as the opening of a dam, and at them Théoden led his men forth like the surging of a river. Gúthwyn joined her sister then behind Éomer, and the three siblings rode from Edoras with their king. Long after they passed from the city, she looked back and saw a line still making its way through the gates. Her heart sang in that hour, for a brief time free of all toil and fear. It was in Gondor that the fate of her people would be decided, but it was in Rohan that she placed her love.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In case anyone didn't notice, last chapter I made the stupidest mistake ever. If you will recall, in chapter eight I specifically stated that Gandalf had left with Pippin for Gondor. Yet in the chapter before this one, I had a conversation that took place between him and Gúthwyn, which would of course not be possible.

In order to remedy this, I changed the conversation to chapter five, and altered some of the events in chapter nine. If you wish to check these out, please feel free to do so.

I honestly don't know how I could have been that stupid, other than this: I had been planning on inserting that conversation on the ride back from Isengard, and I completely forgot about it until I was writing chapter nine. Being smart like that, I didn't remember that I had already sent Gandalf away, and just stuck the scene in. That's what I get for being absent-minded.

Thanks to **GwenevieveGreenleaf** for pointing my idiocy out, hehe.


	11. The Shadow of the Mountain

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eleven:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Eleven**

The sun had not yet touched the horizon when a scout hailed Théoden and his Riders. They halted beside the river and waited for the man to approach them. Gúthwyn squinted, but did not recognize him. On horse he went, drawing close to the king before checking the animal and giving a low bow. "My lord," he said, "I have been sent to escort thee through Harrowdale."

"Well met, Éowine," Théoden replied, inclining his head. "I can feel already we near the valley."

"Aye, and—" Just then, Éowine caught sight of Gúthwyn, who had been next to Éowyn and Éomer. His eyes widened in astonishment, and he stared with unabashed curiosity.

"My niece, Gúthwyn," Théoden said, seeing the Rider's confusion. At this, Éowine's mouth fell open, and he bowed deeply.

"Forgive me, my lady," he murmured. "I did not know—"

"You have been stationed at Dunharrow long, good man," Théoden said. "Perhaps Grimbold should have relieved you of your duties more often."

"I would not have it, my lord," Éowine responded, glancing once more at Gúthwyn. She smiled at him.

Éowine led them into the valley, and as they went cries of "Théoden King! The King of the Mark returns!" met their ears. Gúthwyn delighted in this, as the sound of her people in good spirits lifted her heart above many troubles. There were a great number of tents arrayed in the valley—so many that she could not help but gasp in amazement. She could not even begin to count the number of tents there, gleaming white against the broad green lawn. All around them, men were bustling, sharpening their weapons or making fires to cook food. Some families were there, adding children's laughter to the noise. Many of the people called out to Théoden as moved down the field; some were officers, shouting out the number of men they had brought.

Éomer laughed at her expression. "Hold your awe until we reach the Firienfeld, sister!" he said. "Then you might look down upon them all."

"Indeed," Éowyn added, an amused grin on her face, "they seem far greater when you are turned away from the shadow of the Dwimorberg."

"Why do you call it the Dwimorberg?" a voice asked. Gúthwyn looked around, and then with no small surprise saw Merry, riding near them on a small pony.

"Merry!" she exclaimed, her smile broad. "To ride so near the king is an honor, and I am glad that you are with us."

"I have sworn my service to Théoden," was his proud reply, "as a squire!"

Gúthwyn could not help but raise her eyebrows. The Halfling had had little experience in battle, and he was hardly taller than most of the children. What use Théoden could find for him, she did not know. Yet she covered her puzzlement swiftly, and said, "I bid thee welcome, then, and I hope you find such a position rewarding."

"It is already reward enough," Merry said, "if I get to see places like these on my travels."

"It is called the Dwimorberg, Merry," Éowyn spoke, returning them to their original conversation, "because the name means Haunted Mountain, and through it run the Paths of the Dead."

Even though night was coming, Gúthwyn knew Merry did not shiver from the cold. "The Paths of the Dead, my lady?" he asked, frowning. "They do not sound cheerful."

Éomer smiled grimly. "That is because no one has ever sought to traverse them and emerged alive."

"Oh," Merry said, and was silent for the rest of the ride.

They passed through the Harrowdale, and came to the Stair of the Hold. They were winding, and at each turn there was a statue. Gúthwyn stared at them as she rode by, for she had never seen their likes, and doubted that they were made by the Rohirrim. Thousands of years old did they seem to be; their faces were weathered almost featureless. She could only see their eyes, staring at her somberly.

"The Púkel-men," Éomer muttered.

For a moment, Gúthwyn felt a strange kind of pity for their lost expressions, but the sentiment soon disappeared as they came to the Firienfeld. Most of the tents here were for the king's guard; there would be one for herself and Éowyn as well. Remembering Cobryn and Lebryn, who had been riding at the back of the group, she looked behind her quickly and was pleased to see that they were still there. As a matter of fact, they were speaking with Tun.

She blinked in mild surprise, and then smiled before returning her attentions to the front of the line. Théoden was halting Snowmane, so she followed suit with Heorot. Dismounting and landing lightly on the ground, she asked Éowyn, "How many days do you think we will be here?"

Éowyn glanced at her suspiciously. "_They_ will be here perhaps no later than tomorrow," she replied. "We will stay here until news from the battle is brought back to us."

Gúthwyn nodded, trying to keep her face from flushing. "Are you to be in charge of the people?" she inquired, scratching playfully at Heorot's ears. He snorted, trying to lick her fingers.

"That will be my duty, I imagine," Éowyn said with a sigh. Gúthwyn watched her sister's brow furrow, as if she were thinking hard upon something.

A tap on her shoulder alerted her to her brother's presence. "Bring Windfola and Heorot with me," he said to her and Éowyn, gesturing to where the horses were being kept. She glanced over, and immediately noticed that something was off: The animals were whinnying nervously, tossing their heads and stamping on the ground. Some of the men trying to die them down were struggling with their mares.

Even as she looked, Heorot whickered anxiously. She did not have to wonder what the source of his distress was: Suddenly she became aware of a shadow that had fallen over her face, and gazed up. A frown came over her as she saw the peak of the Dwimorberg rising over them all. The men here were far quieter than those in the Harrowdale, and it was not a mystery to her. A chill seemed to exude itself from the mountain, bringing with it faint whispers of darkness.

"Gúthwyn?"

She shook herself out of her reverie and glanced at Éomer. "Sorry," she said. "I just was lost in my thoughts."

They led their horses over to the makeshift paddock, tying them up near the other ones. Heorot neighed, attempting to pull away as she finished the last not. "Calm down, boy," she whispered, reaching out to stroke his mane. He whinnied at her touch, but she persisted until he became less nervous. "There you are, good…"

She was removing the saddle when Legolas and Gimli made their way over. Legolas nodded at her briefly, and somewhat flustered she returned the gesture, trying to ignore the twisting of her stomach.

"The horses are restless," Legolas said to Éomer, "and the men are quiet."

Her brother put Firefoot's saddle down on a post, and turned a troubled face to the Dwimorberg. "They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," he explained, sighing.

"That road there," Gimli said suddenly, pointing with a gloved finger: "where does that lead?"

Gúthwyn came to stand beside them, relieving herself of Heorot's saddle and following the Dwarf's gaze. There was a great fissure in the rock, leading to a misty fog in which she could see nothing. _The door to the Paths of the Dead,_ she thought, shuddering slightly. It had an ill omen about it, and she had no desire to draw closer to it.

"It is the road to the Dimholt," Legolas answered unexpectedly, startling her, "the door under the mountain." His face was grave; Gúthwyn wondered how much he knew about it. Her hands trembled when he caught her eye.

"None who venture there ever return," Éomer said darkly. "That mountain is evil."

He turned away from them then, going over to Éowyn. Her sister was helping Merry unsaddle his pony, as the Halfling did not have much experience with horses. Gúthwyn was left alone with Legolas and Gimli. "Do you have accommodations, my lords?" she asked politely, trying to think of something Éowyn might say in this type of situation.

Gimli chuckled. "So now that you are a lady, we are lords?" he asked, and she blushed, not meeting Legolas' eyes. A familiar queasy feeling was winding its way through her belly.

Mercifully, she was spared from the awkward exchange when someone called her name. Turning around, she saw Cobryn and Lebryn approaching, looking none the worse despite riding for many hours. Her face stretched into a broad smile. "I am sorry I did not speak much to you on the road," she said as they came nearer. "But I see that you have made friends with my champion?" It was a question, not a statement—she certainly hoped it was so.

"Your champion," Lebryn snickered, pushing his dark hair out of his face. "Convenient, eh?"

"Please, Lebryn," she replied, rolling her eyes at his humor. "Do not make me slap you again."

He winced, unconsciously rubbing his cheek. "That hurt," he muttered ruefully. "You should have warned me."

"Again, peace between the two of you," Cobryn interjected exasperatedly. "You are both like children, in that you constantly bicker amongst yourselves."

Gúthwyn knew that he was not in the least bit angry with either of them, and she smiled at Lebryn in a silent apology. He nodded, though his hand lingered on his face for awhile.

"Anyway," Cobryn said, "yes, we were talking with Tun. He is certainly polite and courteous enough." His lips curled into a mischievous grin. "I presume only because you have assured him that neither of us are trying to capture your heart?" Gúthwyn's eyes widened as her friend laughed. "It was rather obvious that he was not too pleased with us upon our arrival."

"Since you mentioned it, I did tell him that," she replied, her cheeks turning a faint pink color. "Éomer asked me the same thing, if you remember."

Cobryn was about to respond when someone shouted her name. She recognized Tun's voice and smiled before facing him.

"My lady," Tun greeted her, bowing. He nodded at Cobryn and Lebryn. "I do not have duty now," he said, "and there is something I thought you might like to see."

There was a slight grin about his face as he told her this, and Gúthwyn asked, "Is it a surprise?"

He thought for a moment, his brown eyes lifted upwards in concentration. "Well," he said eventually, "perhaps not. I will show you, and let you be the judge."

"That sounds like a plan," Gúthwyn agreed cheerfully, and beamed up at him. "Show me the way, my friend!"

"Cobryn, Lebryn, you may come if you wish," Tun offered, smiling. "You might well enjoy the sight."

He led them through the Firienfeld. As they went, she saw Éomer enter Théoden's tent, though not without giving her companions a warning glance. Cobryn made an indistinct noise when her brother did this, but chose not to comment. Without further incident, they arrived at the end of the field. Tun guided her to the very edge of it, putting a cautious hand on her arm so that she did not lose her footing and tumble over the precipice. It was well that he did, for what she saw below her made her breathless and dizzy with wonder.

Stretching across the Harrowdale were countless rows of tents, going nearly as far as her eye could see. All around them, Riders were hurrying up and down the camp; now and then, snatches of their conversation drifted up to the Firienfeld. The smell of horses and armor was in the air, heavenly to her as she inhaled and exhaled deeply. If she had thought the muster at Edoras was awe-inspiring, that was nothing compared to what she was seeing now. There had to have been at least five thousand Riders, all stoically preparing to march to war.

"Your people, my lady," Tun declared, bowing.

Gúthwyn could hardly speak for happiness. "This is amazing," she at last managed, overwhelmed with delight at such an incredible view. "I…" she trailed off, unable to find the words to describe her joy.

"I can see why you love these people so much," Cobryn said, looking down upon the valley. He seemed to take more pleasure in her gladness than anything else, though his gaze was interested as he scanned the columns of tents. Beside him, Lebryn was silent, yet she could see his eyes were wide.

"I would do anything for them," Gúthwyn replied passionately, leaning forward to observe the Harrowdale better.

Tun's grip on her arm tightened. "Be careful," he murmured.

"Do not worry," she replied, a broad grin on her face. "I have no intention of going anywhere."

* * *

Gúthwyn lay on her pallet, flicking through the pages of Beregil's book by the light of a small candle. She was all alone in the tent, as Éowyn had left to present Merry with his armor and speak to him about his duties. Although she enjoyed her sister's company, she did not mind the privacy, for it gave her a chance to sort through her tumbled thoughts.

A soft sigh escaped her as she withdrew the page upon which poor Beregil had scribed "The Warrior." The past few weeks had been so busy that she had barely had time to think about the two brothers. Yet now her mood was glum as she reflected bitterly on all of the terrible turns her life had taken. More than ever, she cursed herself for her stupidity. A part of her felt that, if only she had realized Borogor's love in time, he would not have perished in Ithilien. It was foolish to think in such ways, but she could not help it.

She wrapped her cloak—Borogor's—around her tightly as her misery deepened. Every fiber of her body yearned for his touch, be it only his comforting hand on her shoulder, or his forehead against hers. Why had she not taken the opportunity while he was with her? How could she have been so ignorant, naively thinking that they were just friends? Now, she knew that all along they had been more than companions, he even more than someone that she completely relied on both physically and mentally. Without him, she would have been driven insane long ago.

Gúthwyn could not bring herself to read "The Warrior" now: Surely she would not be able to make it through the first few lines without bursting into tears. Already she could feel them pricking at the corners of her eyes, causing them to burn and the words before her to blur. The more she thought about Borogor, and how she would have agreed to be his wife without a second's hesitation—would they have started a family together?—the more her mind began turning to the children.

It was maddening that she did not know where exactly Hammel and Haiweth were, nor what had happened to them. She felt as if she were wandering in a thick fog, unable to reach out for them. How many days had passed since she had killed Haldor? As her mind quickly banished memories of his scarlet face and piercing blue eyes, she reckoned that not much more than two weeks had gone by. Could someone have found the Elf's body by then and brought the news to Mordor? Would Sauron even have the children killed then, if her corpse was not with Haldor's? Or would he have them slain anyway?

Gúthwyn was distracted by the flap to her tent unexpectedly opening. Wondering if Éowyn had returned from girding Merry, she glanced up, but did not see anything. Instead, she heard high-pitched giggles. It was then that a child poked his head into the tent, an impish grin on his face.

"Hello, little one," Gúthwyn said, smiling as she put Beregil's book down. "How did you get up here?"

None of the Riders in the Firienfeld had children that she knew of; someone from the Harrowdale had to have brought him up.

"Mama said I could come," the boy beamed, and bounced over to her. He was about three or four; his hair was in desperate need of a brushing, as golden locks were flying all over his face.

Gúthwyn shifted so that he could sit next to her, amused at his boldness. "And what might your name be?"

"Heahtor," the boy replied, stumbling slightly over the name and grinning sheepishly at his mistake. Gúthwyn's smile broadened: Laughter.

"You are aptly named," she told him.

"What are you reading?" he asked curiously, touching Beregil's book.

Gúthwyn ignored the clenching of her stomach as she answered, "It is a book of poems that a friend wrote."

"_Poems?_" the boy wrinkled his nose; evidently they were not interesting enough for his tastes. "Will you play with me?" he inquired instead, looking up at her hopefully.

She could not have refused his adorable eyes even if she had wanted to. "Of course," she said merrily. "But only if your mother allows it."

For a moment, Heahtor seemed put out. Biting his lip, he said, "Mama doesn't smile here."

"Not even at you?" Gúthwyn asked, though she knew the source of his mother's distress: The prospect of Heahtor's father going out to war, and the Dwimorberg that ever loomed as a great shadow over Dunharrow.

Heahtor shook his head sadly, but then brightened. "Can we play now?" he wanted to know.

"Absolutely," Gúthwyn said, standing up. "First, take me to your mother."

He pouted, having that young desire to get what he wanted _now_, though she would not be deterred. "It will only be for a moment," she reminded him.

Looking somewhat mollified, he took her hand and would have started pulling her out of the tent, but for one thing. "What is your name?" he asked, craning his neck to gaze up at her.

"It is Gúthwyn," she told him, smiling.

Heahtor frowned in concentration, and then repeated the name back to her with near-perfect pronunciation. He could not help but laugh as he said it, and began dragging her towards the tent flap. Gúthwyn, too, was unable to suppress a giggle; the sound of it only made Heahtor laugh harder.

Together they departed from the tent, and stood upon the darkening Firienfeld. She was just starting to search for a worried woman—presuming, naturally, that Heahtor's mother had no idea where her son was now—when a voice called out to them. "There you are!"

Heahtor waved energetically at a Rider who was approaching them. He was one of Théoden's guards, a higher-ranked officer based on the symbols decorating his armor. Gúthwyn realized that she recognized him from her younger days in Edoras, as he had been in and out of the Golden Hall for her entire life.

"Elfhelm," she said gladly as he came up to them.

He looked surprised that she remembered him. "My lady," he replied, bowing. A smile graced his features, then thinned slightly as he glanced down at the young boy. "I hope my nephew has not been troubling you—have you, Heahtor?"

"No!" Heahtor cried indignantly.

"Indeed, he has been wonderful company," Gúthwyn said earnestly. "We were about to find his mother, so that I might beg for a little of his time."

Elfhelm's eyes widened. "My lady," he said apologetically, "you need not bother."

"Elfhelm, I gave Heahtor my word, and I will not back out of it," she answered, though not unkindly. "Will you bring me to…" She paused, unsure of whether Heahtor was the son of a brother or a sister. When he had been at Meduseld, it was military business that he conducted—he rarely came just to visit. A small blush came to her face as she thought of all the times she had tried to waylay him; he had put up with her attentions gracefully enough, but now she wondered how exasperated he must have been with her.

"My sister," Elfhelm filled in for her. "Yes, of course I will. You may well recall her, for she was a cook at the Golden Hall until she was with child."

"Brytta?" Gúthwyn asked, astonished. She had missed the woman when she had returned to Edoras, but assumed that she had gone home to her family in this time of war.

"The same," Elfhelm confirmed.

Heahtor tugged impatiently at Gúthwyn's dress. "You said you would play!" he pouted, stamping his foot.

"And I will not break my word," Gúthwyn replied solemnly, ruffling the hair on top of his head. "Where is your mother?"

"In our tent," was his reply.

She cast a sideways glance at Elfhelm.

"I brought him here so that Brytta might have some rest," the Rider muttered, rolling his eyes at the sight of his belligerent nephew. "He is quite excited with all of the warriors and horses about, and has been chattering nonstop ever since we arrived. She is not expecting him until nightfall."

"Well, Heahtor, did you hear that?" Gúthwyn asked, nodding her thanks at Elfhelm. "We do not have to ask permission anymore."

He gave a whoop of delight, and ran in a small circle around her.

* * *

"That was a good meal, and no mistake!" Gimli rumbled contentedly, patting his stomach and sighing happily. He laid his bowl on the ground in front of him, setting the spoon in it with a satisfied smile.

Legolas glanced at his friend. "Who had more: You, or your beard?" he asked, smirking.

The Dwarf growled at him, but when he saw a few flecks of meat in his beard, he grunted in assent. Legolas chuckled, looking away from Gimli to gaze out over the Firienfeld. The two of them had just emerged onto the darkening grounds a few minutes ago, as they had been speaking with Aragorn in his tent. Something was troubling the Ranger; he could tell it in the way his friend's eyes never seemed to be focused on them, and the way in which he constantly sighed during the conversation. Legolas was beginning to worry about the man: It appeared as if a great burden of many years had been laid upon him since they had left Rivendell. He had not been eating much, either, and had declined to join them, saying that he was not hungry.

Now it was Legolas' turn to sigh in preoccupation. Yet as he did so, the sound of a child's laughter met his ears, pure and uncaring of the times to come. He turned around to see a little boy of about three or so run past, a grin of delight stretching from ear to ear. Not two seconds later Gúthwyn came into view, chasing after the child. Her long brown hair was at the mercy of the wind, and blew wildly around her face, but she did not pay it any heed. She was giggling, clearly having the time of her life.

"Who is the boy?" Gimli asked, watching them as well.

Legolas shrugged. "One of the Rider's, I expect," he replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his eyes followed Gúthwyn. It was a relief to see her happy, as too often had her gaze been shrouded in terror or some deep grief.

It was her reunion with her family that had truly brought about this change in her. She loved them fiercely; it was plain for anyone to see. The sadness upon her at Théodred's burial had been heart wrenching to observe, all the more so as he realized that she had never gotten a chance to bid him farewell. He felt guilty for having seen her in such a state, as she loathed the idea of anyone thinking her weak, though at the time he had not understood her sorrow.

Yet now that Gúthwyn was with her people again, he was hard-pressed to name someone in higher spirits. The Rohirrim obviously loved her with intense devotion. It made him wonder what she had been like as a child. And she returned their affections equally, never letting a wave or a smile go unreturned. He knew that, already, Tun was enamored of her. The guard had been with her constantly, always doing his best to both protect and entertain his lady.

She had even apologized to Legolas for her behavior, something that he had to admit had shocked him. Her words had been spoken with a tremble, and she had barely been able to meet his eyes, but it had been an apology all the same. For the briefest instant, he had even seen a hesitant smile creep across her face. A small hope was growing inside him that she might overcome her fear to consider being friends. He had wanted to make amends with her ever since their meeting in Rivendell, and his chance might very well be in front of him.

Just then, the child Gúthwyn was chasing around the Firienfeld started running towards the forbidden crevice in the mountain that lead to the Paths of the Dead. Legolas straightened, but even as his eyes narrowed Gúthwyn overcame the boy and halted him. Leaning down, she whispered something in his ear; whatever it was, it made him giggle, though when she stood back up she cast an anxious glance at the Dwimorberg.

Legolas looked away, not liking the fear that he saw in her eyes.


	12. Under Cover of Darkness

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twelve:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Twelve**

"Good evening, my lady."

Gúthwyn glanced up, knowing even before she did so that she would see Tun approaching her. She was right. Her champion sat down on the log beside her, momentarily blocking her view of the crackling fire a few feet away.

"Hello, my friend," she said, smiling. "I am glad to have company."

He looked concerned. "Have you been alone all night?"

Flattered by his worry, yet feeling more than a little guilty, she hastened to reply: "No. Éowyn, Cobryn, and Lebryn were with me for dinner, although they retired shortly after." Cobryn had offered to stay up with her, but she had declined—there was something she had had to decide, something that would affect her drastically. Her resolve was sealed now; however, half an hour ago her mind had been fraught with so much doubt that she scarcely knew what to think.

"Are you all right?" Tun's quiet voice met her ears, and she realized that she had become lost in her musings.

"Yes, I am fine," she answered, shivering slightly even though it was not terribly cold out.

Something heavy was placed around her shoulders, and she started before seeing that Tun had removed his green cloak and given it to her. "Thank you," she murmured, blushing and praying that he had not overexerted his arm with the motion.

"You seem troubled," he observed, contemplating her carefully. She felt her cheeks color at his scrutiny, but did not mind it so much with him as she would have most other men. "Are you sure everything is fine?"

Gúthwyn nodded. If truth was to be told, she was more determined than anything, thanks to little Heahtor of all people; however, she could not explain the feeling to anyone, at risk of having her meticulous plans ruined. "I suppose"—she paused, casting around for that which would not bring suspicion upon her—"I am worried for the men."

Tun sighed softly. Théoden had given orders that the Riders were to leave at dawn tomorrow, as otherwise they would be too late to aid Gondor. Aragorn was part of the reason for this haste; she knew the Ranger was frustrated in the delay that the mustering brought, though it could not be helped with such a large population. "We may yet return," he said, without much hope in his expression.

"Maybe," Gúthwyn agreed, her voice somber and lonesome. After hearing of the odds against them, which were admittedly less overwhelming than Helm's Deep but far greater in number, she felt that, like as not, they were all riding to their deaths. Before her encounter with Heahtor, she might have been the one to whom such horrible tidings were brought; now, however, she would not have to worry about what befell the Rohirrim in their final hour.

"Gúthwyn?" Tun asked, his words quieter than normal. She looked at him, and for a moment it seemed as if he were going to say something important. Then he exhaled, breaking the illusion. "I worry for what will happen to you if… if the battle should go wrong."

"Do not say such things," she replied, putting a hand on his shoulder and allowing a small smile to cross her features. "It is most unbecoming of a champion to speak so morosely to his lady."

"I suppose you are right," Tun admitted, and stood up. "May I escort you to your tent?" he asked, offering his hand out to her. "The night grows old, and it would not be good for you to stay up too late."

She allowed him to pull her to her feet. "I will have to bid the men farewell tomorrow," she sighed. "Many a face shall I look into and wonder if I will ever see them again—yours not the least of them."

"Do not grieve," Tun urged her as they began walking towards her tent. "If you lose hope, then I have none for myself."

Gúthwyn did not have the heart to tell him that her hopes had just been reborn, yet lay somewhere far away from her champion. "I shall not, then," she promised instead. They were standing in front of her tent now, Tun shifting awkwardly on his feet. She realized that she still had his cloak on, and hastened to remove it. "My apologies," she said, trying to hand it to him.

He looked startled, as if he had not even noticed that she still wore it. Then he took her hand, which was beneath the brooch, and closed it over the metal clasp. "Keep it," he responded.

Firmly, Gúthwyn held it out to him. "This is part of your uniform," she reminded him, "and men will ask questions. Wear it proudly tomorrow, and all the days after until your doom is to be decided."

He had no choice but to take the cloak back. "As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Tun."

When she entered the tent, struggling in the dark to find her way to her pallet without awakening her sister, there was a rustling noise. Éowyn sat up, her gold hair glimmering silver in the pale moonlight filtering in through the slightly open tent flap.

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn whispered, lowering herself onto a blanket. "I did not mean to disturb—"

"I was not asleep," Éowyn answered. Indeed, as her eyes adjusted to the light, Gúthwyn saw that her sister was still fully dressed, and was surprised at this.

"Is something wrong?" she wondered in mild confusion.

Éowyn glanced at her, shaking her head. "No, nothing," she said. "Why would you ask?"

Gúthwyn sensed that this was not the best time to press her sister. "Never mind," she murmured, yawning a little and stretching out on her pallet.

"Was that Tun you were talking to?" Éowyn inquired, though Gúthwyn was aware that her sister knew fully well that it was her champion.

"Yes," she replied, and Éowyn gazed at her keenly.

"You have been spending much of your time with him, have you not?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Do you remember when we were younger, how I used to spend all of my days with him?"

She thought her sister looked exasperated for a few seconds, as if Gúthwyn had not understood the question, and thus had not answered it properly. But Éowyn did not say anything more on the matter; being rather perplexed, Gúthwyn remained silent as well. As the minutes passed without spoken word, she found her thoughts turning to other things.

And she had much to sift through in her mind. Hammel and Haiweth's faces flashed before her. Because of Heahtor, who had done nothing more than shown her how much she missed having a young one to watch over, she had come to a realization: She could not just leave them in Mordor without a backward glance. Even if her mission had failed, and so their deaths guaranteed, she had loved them for over three years. Such fierce protection she could not abandon in their time of need.

If only two weeks had passed since her killing Haldor—her fingers trembled—there was a possibility that Sauron had not yet learned of it. He might still think her trying to find the Ring and return it to him. That is, unless Frodo and Sam had been captured, and he already had the Ring.

She immediately dismissed the notion out of her mind. If Sauron had the Ring, and it were truly as powerful as Gandalf and the Council had said, they would have known about it immediately. So the Dark Lord's search remained in vain, none of his labors bearing fruit. All the better for her, especially if she was considered one of these labors. He would not endanger a possibility of success—or would he?

Gúthwyn thought back to her interrogation with Aragorn. As painful as it had been, he had planted several seeds of disquiet in her mind. He clearly believed that Sauron's intent had been to kill her off while she was in the wilderness, likely so that Haldor could continue the task in her stead. If she knew anything about Haldor, which was surprisingly little in comparison to that which he knew about her, he would have sent a message to the Dark Lord the moment he had slain her, before her body was even cold. The children would have been dead within the week.

Yet that scheme had gone terribly, horribly wrong for the Elf. Gúthwyn had been the one who emerged triumphant from their duel. It was Haldor's corpse that lay on the foliage, decaying under the sun. And perhaps—a slim chance it was, but perhaps—she had been wrong to dismiss Hammel and Haiweth's fates as sealed. Maybe they had not perished. Maybe Sauron was delaying their deaths until word from Haldor came. She might have days or weeks until his patience ran out.

Gúthwyn sighed, and cursed her folly in a whisper so quiet that she could not even hear it herself. Outside, a horse's hooves lightly sounded, and then stopped. If only she had realized this before the beacons had been lit, she could have gone back to Mordor. If she had left Edoras in the middle of the night, no one would have noticed her passing. She had the password to give to those on top of the Black Gate upon her return; all she had to do was shout it, and they would let her in.

From there, it would have been a matter of finding the children before Sauron could send someone to detain her, and making sure they left Mordor on the horse that she used to enter. Gúthwyn did not doubt that her fate would be grim, once the Dark Lord learned that she had not upheld her end of the bargain. She was probably facing torture unimaginable in the dark pits of Barad-dûr, and a terrible death in some sunless dungeon. Yet if it was to be so in order to ensure Hammel and Haiweth's freedom, then she would not have it any other way.

But now that the beacons had been lit, and Rohan was riding off to battle, there was a thousand times more risk to her plan. Gúthwyn had no intention of being left behind while the men won renown on the field. She would have to disguise herself again, though she had done so before—and succeeded. And this time, she would be sure to keep as far away from Legolas as humanly possible.

Even if no one recognized her, the Rohirrim still had to be the winners of the battle in order for victory to be hers. She could not very well emerge from the opposing army and waltz her way to the Mountains of Shadow. No; she would be shot down before she had gotten fifty feet. But if her people defeated the forces of Sauron, none would be left to hinder her passing. She could get to Mordor easily, and free the children.

If only she had thought of her plan before Gondor had sent for help! Now, she could not steal away from her people in the dark of night: Sauron's armies were probably already marching on Osgiliath, the nearest Gondorian city to his realm, and she had no hope of reaching the Mountains of Shadow without being taken by the Enemy and questioned. That option was closed.

Gúthwyn restlessly turned over. By a combination of her own stupidity and the courses of the past week, she had only one choice. She would fight in the battle, and do her best to help her people win. If the Dark Lord's armies were defeated, and she was not killed, she would be able to ride to Mordor. From there, she would give the password, and find the children before she was taken to see Sauron. Assuming all went right, the odds of which were smaller than her littlest finger, Hammel and Haiweth would reach Gondor at about the time she was put under her first torture machine.

In this dark hour, Gúthwyn very nearly laughed. So much could go so wrong—her plan was about as hopeless as the battle of Helm's Deep had been. Yet had that not been won? There was a chance of success for her, just as there had been for the defenders of that fortress. It merely happened to be incredibly, incredibly slim. She was smiling wryly when, at that moment, Éowyn stood up, and without a backward glance left the tent.

Gúthwyn blinked, wondering what on earth her sister was doing wandering around in the middle of the night. As she lay there in confusion, she heard the sound of a horse whinnying. It sounded like Brego, whom Aragorn had been riding. A sudden, sinking feeling wormed its way into her stomach, but she dared not follow Éowyn for fear of being seen.

Anxiously, she sat up and stared fixatedly at the billowing canvas, willing her sister to return. For several minutes she waited there, shivering in the windy night. Before much time had passed, she had taken Chalibeth's cloak out and wrapped it around herself. Still Éowyn did not come back. A quarter of an hour went by.

She was about to leave the tent to find her sister, regardless of how private her business may have been, when the tent flap opened. Gúthwyn did not pretend to be asleep as Éowyn slipped inside, rubbing something from her face. Even in the gloom, she thought her eyes looked red—as if she had been crying.

"Éowyn?" Gúthwyn asked softly. Her voice was as frozen water being poured onto her sister: Éowyn stiffened in shock, and for nearly a full minute was silent.

"I did not know you were awake," she said at last, her voice colder and sterner than it normally was. Éomer would not have thought it strange, had he been there, but Gúthwyn had not seen her sister in the days of Théoden's enchantment; to her, it was frightening to gaze upon the White Lady of Rohan and truly realize what the title meant.

"I… what happened?" Gúthwyn questioned, at a loss for what else to say.

"Nothing, sister. Do not worry yourself; you are pale and thin enough as it is."

Gúthwyn knew the words were not intended to be an insult, and she did not take it as one. "Éowyn, I would hear what has made you upset, for then I might hope to amend your grief." If Aragorn had done or said anything, she would hunt the hunter down and make him regret his catch.

Éowyn stood there for a moment, as fragile and slender as a lily in a dark pool, and finally said: "Lord Aragorn is leaving."

Wincing at the defeated tone in those words, Gúthwyn asked, "What do you mean?" Even as she spoke, she paid close attention to the guarded face before her.

But her sister did not answer her, and at length Gúthwyn decided to find out for herself. She stood up; though Éowyn stirred, she did not move to stop her, and she passed unhindered through the flap. Coming out into a night darker than most, she hesitated for an instant before continuing. All around her, the light from watch fires soon came into view, beckoning cheerfully, but she did not give them another glance. Instead, she made her way to where the horses were kept. Somehow, she was not surprised to see a familiar Man walking away from the paddocks, his head bowed and his hand entwined about the lead rope of Brego.

"Aragorn!" she called, lifting the hem of her nightgown and running towards him. She knew it was not proper to be out so scantily dressed—_propriety be damned,_ she thought as he turned around.

The Ranger's eyes were wary as she approached him. "Where are you going?" Gúthwyn asked, slowing to a stop and looking at Brego. She could tell from the way the horse had been prepared that this was no short journey. A sudden flare of anger rushed through her. "Are you leaving us before the battle begins, much like the coward Gríma left when his enchantments were laid bare?"

"I am not abandoning your people," Aragorn replied wearily, seeming to not have the heart to speak with her. "I go to seek aid."

She would not let him off the hook. "Then you were facing the wrong way," she said, "for that is the way to the Dimholt, and only death lies there." She could not help shivering as she glanced at the forbidding mountain.

Aragorn's voice was calm. "Then mayhap it is to death I go, but a messenger came to me in the night. I am taking the Paths of the Dead."

His words hit her like a gigantic fist swinging into her stomach, briefly robbing her of all the breath in her lungs. Was this man mad? Ever since Baldor had attempted to traverse those deadly passages, and vanished without a trace, none had dared to try them, or even retrieve the prince's body.

At last regaining the ability to speak, she stammered, "B-But… surely you jest!"

He looked at her keenly. "I would not jest about such a topic," he replied. "It is the road I must take."

Gúthwyn's face grew pale. "You cannot abandon the men!"

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "That is exactly what your sister said to me," he told her, once more appearing guarded. "And she is the reason you are here, is she not?"

"What did you do?" Gúthwyn demanded, stepping closer and glaring.

"I told her the truth," Aragorn answered, and she was stricken to hear the regret in his tone. "That what she desires, I cannot fulfill."

"You knew she loved you," Gúthwyn hissed, her hands curling into fists, "from the moment she met you! Why did you let her think that you returned her feelings?"

Aragorn's eyes blazed, the fire in them so terrible to behold that she stepped back. "I have done no such thing," he said, his voice in contrast to his gaze cold iron. "You speak of that which you know little. I have wanted Éowyn to be happy, but I would not entertain her wishes if I had no intention of granting them!"

"Yet you found it easy to discard them!" Gúthwyn snapped, and regretted her words almost immediately.

It was then that she truly thought the Ranger would strike her. His hand rose several inches before he stopped himself, the expression on his face twisted with fury—yet not all of it was directed at her.

She felt her eyes widen in horror, though her disgust was at her callous words rather than his restrained anger. "I-I am sorry," she whispered, shame coloring her cheeks a bright red. "I did not… I should not have…"

"I love your sister," Aragorn said quietly, "as just that: a sister. It grieves me to know that I have only added to her pain, rather than eased it."

Gúthwyn bowed her head, embarrassed that she had let her emotions carry her so far. "I am sorry," she muttered again.

"You seek to defend those you love," Aragorn said, "and that I understand; I do not hold you to your words."

He spoke kindly, but she could not keep her face from flushing.

"Farewell."

She raised her head and looked at him, yet somehow a proper reply would not form in her mouth. At length he nodded, turning away and starting to lead Brego through the tents.

Then she ran after him, drawing his attention with the sound of her footsteps. "What shall I tell my uncle when he asks where you have gone?" she asked breathlessly, coming to a halt beside him.

He looked at her, not slowing down. "Théoden knows I have an errand that must be done."

"Does he know what your errand is?" she could not help inquiring.

Aragorn was spared from responding when a short, stout figure suddenly stood up in front of them. "Just where do you think you are off to?" Gimli wanted to know, his voice a low grumble.

She watched Aragorn sigh, clearly not pleased with the delay. "Not this time," the Ranger said, pausing in his stride. "This time you must stay, Gimli."

"You will take Gúthwyn in a dress and without a sword, yet I cannot go?" Gimli retorted, casting a puzzled look at her.

"She is not going," Aragorn quickly said, and glanced at her as if to say that she should not get any ideas.

"Then you will need company on the road," Gimli replied easily, slipping an axe into his belt.

Aragorn made as if to shake his head, but then a dryly amused voice met their ears. "Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?" Legolas asked, joining the group. He was leading Arod. For a brief moment, her eyes met his, and he tilted his head in a silent inquiry. Gúthwyn became very self-conscious of just how thin her nightgown was; instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself.

"You might as well accept it," Gimli said then. "We are going with you, laddie."

She watched as a small smile crept over Aragorn's face, despite his earlier resolution to travel alone. "It seems as if I am doomed to lead you into peril," he sighed.

"So you will not be dissuaded?" Gúthwyn asked quietly.

All three of them looked at her. "No," Aragorn replied at length. "I will not."

A heavy feeling settled into her heart. "So I suppose this is the last time we will see each other, then," she said, her gaze passing over them: Aragorn, tall and kingly even in his soiled garb; Gimli, standing proudly, though he was the shortest of them all; Legolas, so much like Haldor in everything that he did, yet with no malice in his eyes as he looked upon her.

"Do not lose hope," the Elf now bade her. "We may meet again."

"I have some hope," Gúthwyn answered, her hands trembling the slightest bit, "though it is not in your return, which I doubt will come to pass."

Aragorn grinned wryly. "Your people doubted at the battle of Helm's Deep," he reminded her. "Perhaps you make the same mistake again."

"But if I do not," Gúthwyn said, "then… farewell, and may the Valar bless you."

"Farewell," both Aragorn and Gimli responded, though Legolas was silent for a time. At length, he nodded at her.

"May your road be long and prosperous," he said, and bowed. "I am sorry for whatever grievances I may have brought upon you, for I had no intent to."

"T-Thank you," Gúthwyn murmured, a hesitant smile coming to her face. Even as she did so, he shifted so that the moonlight struck his face, making his eyes glitter as Haldor's had. She valiantly fought against a shudder, and said, "Good luck."

"Thank you, Lady Gúthwyn," Legolas said, and then the three of them had turned away and disappeared into the night.


	13. Final Farewells

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Thirteen**

It was one of the first mornings in a long while that Gúthwyn did not have to be shaken awake by someone.

That was because she did not sleep at all. She had tried, of course, when she returned to her tent after bidding Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli farewell, but rest simply would not take her. She was too nervous and excited about what was to come; her body alternately went through fits of shivering and pauses of an absolute calm so still that she could have successfully played dead.

So when the sun rose, managing with its brilliant red to chase away some of the shadows of the Dwimorberg, Gúthwyn arose from her pallet and went outside. Éowyn had left about an hour ago; she wondered if her sister had gotten any sleep either. She wanted to find her, but did not know where to look, and in any case there was plenty to busy herself with.

As she stepped out onto the Firienfeld, her eyes were greeted with the sight of every Rider in the camp preparing for the journey to Gondor. It would take them close to a week to arrive at the White City, which was where Théoden believed the main brunt of the assault would fall. Osgiliath, due to long warfare between the forces of the Red Eye and the Silver Tree, was in ruins, and its only value was that it was a key means of crossing the River Anduin. The Enemy would take it easily enough, as Gondor had a waning populace, and there were not enough men to defend the city from the thousands of Orcs Sauron could afford to send.

This would leave Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor not five leagues away, vulnerable to attack. From what she had heard in brief snatches of conversation between the higher officers, Sauron purposed to utterly destroy the city so that not a child was left. The forces that he sent against it would be greater than anything Middle-earth had seen for years, easily dwarfing those at Helm's Deep.

Gúthwyn looked about her as she walked, hoping to find her uncle. She had not seen Théoden much since they arrived at Dunharrow; he did, after all, have many duties as a king. As a matter of fact, she had barely conversed with him after he had questioned her about Isengard and Mordor. It was not that she was trying to avoid him: Their paths had just not crossed that often.

"Gúthwyn!" someone exclaimed then, and she turned to see Éomer hurrying towards her. With the exception of his helmet, he had donned his full set of armor. The sunlight caught in his hair as he drew nearer, making it blaze with a golden fire and his armor shine. She smiled at the sight of him, delighted as she remembered him charging valiantly against the lines of Uruk-hai at Helm's Deep.

"Good morning," she greeted him.

"Théoden wishes to see you in his tent," Éomer replied. "I expect he has some duty for you to take over in our absence."

"Duty?" Gúthwyn echoed as her brother began leading her towards the king's tent. "What duty could I possibly fulfill?"

Éomer shrugged. "You underestimate your capabilities," he said, nodding at the guards who stood before Théoden's lodgings. "I do not doubt that you will exceed any expectations."

She smiled to hear his words. "Thank you, brother," she told him as he held the tent flap open for her.

Ducking under it, Gúthwyn emerged into what had become a makeshift throne room. It was far greater than any of the other tents, and was lined with a great number of furnishings. These included several carpets and tapestries, along with a sturdy wooden chair and a table on which numerous maps were laid. Her uncle had been sitting on the chair, but at her arrival he stood up.

"My lord," Gúthwyn murmured, sinking into a curtsy. This time, she managed to do it without wobbling.

Théoden gave a small laugh, and she looked up to see his eyes twinkling in amusement. "You do not need to address me as such here," he said. Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw Éomer step into the room. She remained silent, waiting for her uncle to continue.

At length, the king sighed. "While we are gone," he began, glancing down at his hands briefly, "your sister is to be in charge of the people. She will sit on the throne at the Golden Hall, for Edoras may long be held against Mordor should the battle go wrong."

Gúthwyn's face paled at the thought, but she did not say anything.

"I know you have not had much education," Théoden spoke awkwardly; "something that seems most grievous to me. I have not kept my vow to Théodwyn."

"You have done your best," Gúthwyn said, and felt a pang of guilt as she remembered all the horrible things she had shouted at him upon their reunion. Haldor still whispered them to her at night, but she no longer believed them to be true.

Théoden shook his head. "Shall we come back, I will not let the matter go overlooked. Yet in the meantime, you should see that Éowyn's orders are obeyed—it has not escaped my attention that you have a way with the people."

Gúthwyn was willing to bet that Théoden was doing this so that she did not feel left out of the preparations, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "I will do my best, Uncle," she promised, dropping a brief curtsy.

He drew closer to her, and said, "Then it is farewell, my niece. For I must speak with my men, and we will not see each other for a long time—if at all."

"May the Valar be with you," Gúthwyn murmured. Théoden cupped her face in his hands and laid a fatherly kiss on her brow. She felt a horrible twist of guilt in her stomach as she thought, again, of all that she had said to him upon their reunion. "I am sorry," she whispered when he pulled away.

"For what?" he asked, his blue eyes narrowed in confusion.

"For being so rude to you when I came home," she muttered. "I… I should not—I was…"

"No," he said, holding up a hand to stop her. "I will not hear you blame yourself for the consequences of a mistake I made years ago. It is I who should be sorry; and know, Gúthwyn, that I am, more than I can ever express to you in words or actions. I pray that, one day, you will forgive an old man for his foolishness."

"I have already forgiven you," she replied, and wrapped her arms about him. Théoden stiffened in surprise for an instant, and then returned the embrace firmly. She breathed in her uncle's scent, remembering all of the times she had sat in his lap to hear tales of Rohan's glory in long ago battles. Those days were now gone, lost in her past along with her innocence, but she cherished them all the same: As reminders that she had once been carefree, that she had once had nothing more to worry about than when Théodred's next lesson would be.

When they separated, she saw tears glistening in his eyes. They were not mirrored in her own, for her heart had born the burden of farewells far worse than this, but she was worried for the king's safety. "Good luck," she bade him. "I desire to hear songs of how your sword glistened with the blood of a thousand Orcs."

He gave a grim smile. "Mayhap you will," he said, "though my time is passing. Éomer would be a far better man to pin your wishes on."

Gúthwyn looked at her brother, already afraid of him perishing on the battlefield.

"I will give you two some time alone," Théoden said, and patted her one last time on the shoulder before exiting the tent.

She watched him go, then glanced at Éomer. His face was dark as he sighed; his eyes were clouded in worry. "Will you be all right?" he asked her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Nodding, Gúthwyn replied, "I am fine. It is I who should be concerned about you."

"Do not be," he assured her. "What comes will come, and who am I to shy away from fate?"

Gúthwyn made a small noise of amusement. "Indeed, brother, sometimes I think you rush headfirst into it."

He chuckled, though the noise was quickly stifled in the shadow of war. "I am not the only impetuous one," he retorted. Yet when he next spoke, his words were serious, and tinged with underlying sorrow. "I wish we did not have to part so soon."

She did not know what it was in what he had said, but just then the reality of what she was doing slammed into her. It seemed as if she had been playing her role of the dutiful lady so well that she had nearly forgotten what lay before her. But now it drowned her in unfathomable sorrow: No matter what happened in the battle, no matter if she and Éomer both survived, they would never see each other again. If he ever heard news of her fate, it would be that she had perished in a dark dungeon, tortured and beaten until her body could not bear the abuse.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she had barely managed to fling herself into Éomer's arms when the tears welled up in her eyes. No wetness tumbled down her cheeks, yet she felt dangerously close to losing control, as unsteady as a drop of milk before it slides off of a child's chin.

"Gúthwyn?" Éomer asked hesitantly, nevertheless holding her tightly.

_I am never going to see you again and I love you and I want to stay home and I am scared!_ she wanted to sob, but instead buried her face in his armor. Even though it pressed painfully into her forehead, she did not let go for over a full minute. She knew that when she did, when they parted, she could never go back. She could never speak to him again. She could never return to Edoras, to her people.

As the thought crashed over her, she let out a gasp, and was unable to stop her shoulders from heaving up and down.

"Gúthwyn?" He was separating from her so that he could look into her eyes. Effortlessly, he moved her, and she did not have enough time to blink away the tears before he saw them. Hot embarrassment washed upon her, so that she could not meet his gaze.

Two fingers were laid underneath her chin, tilting her head up. "It grieves me to see your sorrow," Éomer said quietly, "but even more to see that you are ashamed of it. If I should fall, would you hide your tears?"

His questioning was more than she could stand. "I-I need to go," she said shakily. "Th-There are more farewells I must give… Please be careful, brother."

He was clearly perplexed at her behavior. "Is everything—"

"Goodbye, Éomer," she whispered, and squeezed his hand before releasing him and turning away.

* * *

Below her, the Harrowdale stretched out like a vast anthill, positively crawling with men gearing up their horses and gathering their things. Gúthwyn sighed, the noise lost in the bustle of preparation.

"Your face holds no hope, though the battle has not yet begun."

Cobryn's voice echoed in her ears, and she looked over to see her friend stepping up beside her.

"What hope can there be?" she asked dully, having neither the heart nor the ability to tell him why she was so upset.

"Your people are strong," Cobryn replied, glancing at her keenly, "and the Valar may be watching over them."

"They have abandoned us!" she cried with unexpected vehemence, startling them both. "They have abandoned me! All that I _hope_ for comes to naught!" Bitterness seeped into her words, filling all of the cracks in her voice.

Cobryn's gaze had not changed, though his lips had parted slightly. "Has something happened?" he questioned, searching her eyes for answers that she might not give with her mouth. "Or is it because your brother rides out to battle, and you doubt that you will see him again?"

She shook her head, abruptly changing the subject. "Are you going to fight?" she wanted to know. He did not have any armor or weapons on him, so it was a foolish inquiry, though she did not think she would be able to keep her emotions checked should his interrogation probe any further.

Cobryn knew as well as she did that she was trying to distract him, but he answered anyway. "I will not, for I have not been practicing with a sword nearly as often as the boys they now send, and if I fell from my horse I would be useless."

"What of Lebryn?" she asked.

"Aye, he will go with them," Cobryn said, a worried expression in his eyes. "I can only pray that he does not get himself into trouble before the battle actually commences."

Gúthwyn nodded absently, her heart filled with silent agony as she reflected that this was the last time she would speak to her friend. In a few moments, she would have to find Lebryn and Tun to bid farewell; then, she would wait until the men were just about to leave, and sneak her way into the armory. From there, she would take what she needed, somehow manage to free Heorot without attracting attention, and join the mustering Rohirrim as just another soldier.

"Gúthwyn, what is it?" Cobryn's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"What is what?" she asked, folding her arms across her stomach and looking at him.

"Something is troubling you," he replied, studying her closely. "I am not foolish. You were fine last night. Yet to me it seems that it is not the battle that you are worried about."

"Cobryn," she said suddenly. "If I had children, would you protect them?"

She watched as her friend, rarely taken aback by anything, let his jaw drop so far that she was surprised that it did not scrape the ground. His eyes widened. "Are you trying to tell me something?" he finally managed, seeming too flabbergasted to say more.

"Would you?" she pressed, ignoring his shocked expression. Hammel and Haiweth's figures, bent with toil from hard labor in Mordor, flashed through her mind.

"What—"

"_Would you?_"

"Yes," Cobryn answered quietly. He put a hand on her shoulder, leaning closer so that their faces were but five inches from each other. "Why are you asking me this?"

Gúthwyn pulled away. "It is nothing," she said, and made to leave him. But his hand reached out and took hers, forcing her to turn back around.

"Are you with child?" he inquired, his voice so low that she could scarcely hear it. She thought she saw a dark look flicker over his eyes for the briefest second, and remembered painfully that he had lost his own son or daughter.

"Cobryn, it is nothing," she insisted, yanking her hand from his with more force than was necessary. "I am sorry; forget I said anything. My mood is not right at this time of month."

She thought the instant she slipped that detail into the conversation, he would drop the subject, just as any man would have done. And to some extent, it worked: He certainly did not question her further, though his expression became rather unreadable. Instantly, she felt guilty for having stirred up terrible recollections from his past, and lowered her eyes. "I am sorry," she whispered, and when he did not say anything, she left him. Tears threatened to roll down her cheeks as she went, but she refused to let them.

There was not much time remaining until the Riders departed. Already some of them were beginning to saddle their horses. Lifting up the hem of her dress so that she might quicken her pace, Gúthwyn searched for Lebryn or Tun, and at length found the two of them standing together outside of the armory.

"Well, if it is not the lady herself, come to bid us lowly soldiers farewell," Lebryn said, even in the face of likely death his usual sarcastic self. He had donned a simple set of armor, consisting mainly of chain mail and an unadorned breastplate. His helmet was tucked in the crook of his arm, so that his long dark hair sprawled unrestrainedly over his muscular shoulders.

"I was starting to fear that I would not see you before we left," Tun spoke, a relieved smile coming over his face. Then he caught sight of her expression. "Are you all right?"

"It is nothing," Gúthwyn said for the third time that morning. "I did not get a lot of sleep."

Tun winced sympathetically. "Neither did I," he replied.

"Slept like a log," Lebryn declared.

For a moment, the two Rohirrim looked at him; then they shook their heads in amusement.

"Well, Lebryn," Gúthwyn said, "I wish you the best of luck." A hard lump formed in her throat as she imagined him riding off to battle, his dark eyes glittering with excitement. And then her mind leaped ahead of herself, and she wondered whether he would marry and have children…

_No!_ she exclaimed silently. _They have not even ridden off to battle yet! Do not do this to yourself!_

Oblivious to her tormented thoughts, Lebryn nodded, and Gúthwyn turned her attentions to Tun. Tears very nearly welled up in her eyes at the sight of her champion: She had only been his lady for a little over a week, and now he would have to find a new one. Her heart twisted as she remembered him pledging his service to her. It was the only thing that had kept her in Meduseld, the only thing that had made her willing to accept Théoden's apologies and resume her place in the royal family.

"Tun," she said, drawing closer to him, "thank you so much."

"What for, my lady?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"For all that you have done," she whispered, and before he could say anything she hugged him fiercely. His strong arm wrapped around her as she said, "Be careful!"

"Do not fear," he murmured. "I will be fine."

Nodding, she let go of him, but then just as quickly gave him a light kiss on the cheek—as was the custom, she believed, for ladies to do with their champions. Tun looked both surprised and gratified when she did this.

"Thank _you_, my lady," he said as he bowed, a sparkle in his eyes amidst the worry. "It has been an honor."

Gúthwyn smiled sadly. "Farewell to you both," she told him and Lebryn, who was smirking unrestrainedly. They inclined their heads, but at that moment a horn sounded. Rohan was riding forth, preparing to go to war for Gondor, its ally of old. All of the men in the Firienfeld were bringing their horses towards the Stair of the Hold, about to join the rest of the soldiers in the Harrowdale. Tun and Lebryn waved at her, and then left to follow the other warriors.

Roughly wiping her eyes, she watched them go. These goodbyes were costing her more than she wanted to admit; especially when her friends and family had no idea that they would never see her again, regardless of the battle's outcome.

_Enough,_ she told herself sternly. _You have a plan, and a little less than a few minutes to complete the first step._

Right now, she needed to get into the armory tent—which would not be too difficult, considering she was standing in front of it—and find some of the smaller gear to protect her body. Casting a quick glance about her, she was relieved to see that no one was looking at her. Before she could second-guess that thought, she ducked inside the tent. Now, more than ever, disguise was of the utmost importance: There were about five days ahead of her until the battle, in which she would be traveling with the men.

First things first. She removed her dress quickly, stuffing it into her pack. Over the tunic and leggings that she had worn beneath it, she slipped a knee-length shirt of chain mail. It had the tiniest of holes on the arm, and was a little too big for her, but there were no better choices. Then she found a pair of greaves to cover her shins. At Helm's Deep she had not donned these, but the upcoming battle would be fought solely on horseback, and her legs would be prime targets to Sauron's forces. Her boots would provide the remaining protection.

Gúthwyn was reaching for a helmet when a sudden breeze alerted her to the tent flap being opened. In a panic, she whirled around, but there was nowhere to hide. Before she could even put her helmet on, Éowyn slipped inside. Her sword was in her hands.

The two sisters stared at each other. Éowyn's eyes were wide, her face drained of color. She drew in a shaky breath. "What are you doing here?" she demanded at last, her eyes narrowed.

Gúthwyn could think of nothing to say to that, except: "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I was looking for you," Éowyn replied after a brief pause.

"In the armory?" Gúthwyn retorted, glancing pointedly at the blade her sister was holding. Éowyn flushed.

"It is a good thing I did!" she exclaimed, gesturing at the armor that Gúthwyn now wore. "What are you thinking?"

"The same thing you are, I would wager," Gúthwyn said, folding her arms over her stomach and standing her ground.

Just then, another horn sounded. She was—they were—wasting time. "Here," Gúthwyn began abruptly, reaching into the pile and withdrawing a shirt of chain mail. Before Éowyn could say anything, she threw it at her, and watched with a small grin as she caught it perfectly.

Her sister smiled, though Gúthwyn thought there was a certain sadness in her gaze. "Are you sure of this?" she asked, removing her dress. Below it was a shorter woolen one.

Gúthwyn nodded. "If duties are to be ignored, let us do it together. Maybe in the future, songs will be sung of the day when the entire royal family of Rohan rode to battle, even the women."

"Alas, I do not think that in the future many songs shall be sung," Éowyn replied, withdrawing a long strip of fabric from a pouch she wore at her waist. Gúthwyn winced as she wrapped it tightly around her chest, effectively flattening it.

"That looks painful," she commented, putting her helmet on. Immediately her vision grew narrower. She herself had not bound her breasts, as her small curves were undetectable beneath her armor.

Éowyn did not even grimace. "If this is the only discomfort that my body endures, then I shall count myself lucky." She yanked the hauberk over her head, and reached for a leather cuirass. Gúthwyn found one of her own, and imitated the way her sister strapped it about her torso. She had never used one of them before, but to her surprise it was not as restricting as she had imagined.

Soon, the two of them were indistinguishable from common soldiers. Gúthwyn could barely tell Éowyn from a man, even though she had watched the transformation.

"Are you ready?" Éowyn inquired, what little of her face that was visible now pale, but set.

Gúthwyn's response was to strap Framwine onto her belt.


	14. Drums of the Woses

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fourteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book, though there are obviously things I had to make up because we do not know much about this stage of the journey. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Cobryn stood amidst a swarm of warriors that were hastily putting out fires and leaping atop their horses. It was the hour of the ride of the Rohirrim, and with the exception of the White City he did not think he had seen a more magnificent sight. The sheer numbers in themselves were astonishing. It never ceased to amaze him how these men could control their horses so efficiently, though there be thousands more around them.

He saw Éomer riding past him, making his way down a slope upon the strong Firefoot and seeming preoccupied. Beside him was Théoden. The king of Rohan was resplendent in all his glory, even before the battle had begun. His green-tinted armor gleamed in the early morning sun, and his golden hair brushed over his shoulders like brilliant rays hitting the sparkling waters of a lake.

And it was not just him. There was something beautiful, something poetic, about these people. He could easily understand Gúthwyn's love for them; a rush of adrenaline was filling him as he watched the Riders go by, though he was not part of them. They seemed to be mere extensions of their horses, completely at one with the animals.

"I do not know how I will get this thing to Minas Tirith without getting killed in the process," someone grumbled. Cobryn grinned, and turned around to see the exception to his earlier observation—Lebryn—approaching him on the black mare that he had been given. On more than one occasion he had thought that the horse took pleasure in tormenting the former slave.

"You will do fine," he assured Lebryn, patting the horse's flanks. "Are you ready?" He did not mean for the ride.

"Yes," Lebryn replied firmly, but he reached down and clasped Cobryn's shoulder briefly. "I hope to see you again. You may be impossibly annoying at times, but…" A smirk crossed his face.

Cobryn snorted. "Sit up straight in your saddle," he said in response. Lebryn rolled his eyes as he obeyed. "Good luck," he added, trying to keep his mind from imagining the younger man being slain by Orcs.

"Thank you," Lebryn said, and while he smiled, Cobryn knew that he was worried about the upcoming battle, try though he might to conceal it.

"Kill some Orcs for me, my friend," Cobryn told him, wishing sorely that he could have ridden to battle himself. If it were not for the limp…

"That I will," Lebryn vowed. With that, he steered the horse away, and followed the other Riders to the entrance of the Harrowdale. Cobryn watched him go, feeling rather like an old man sending his son off to war. He chuckled at the notion, but all the same prayed for his friend's safe return.

The last of the Rohirrim were leaving now. Cobryn turned around and caught sight of the Hobbit, Merry, standing there in something akin to confusion. He wore all of his battle gear, and was equipped with a sword. However, Cobryn knew that earlier Théoden had told him that he would not be riding out with his men. The Halfling's little horse could not bear him the distance to Gondor, the king said, and war was no place for one as his jovial squire.

Cobryn thought the last part a little unfair, but he had to agree with the fact that Merry's pony was simply not strong enough to complete such a journey. He was about to go over to the Halfling when, from out of apparently nowhere, a Rider leaned down from his horse and scooped the Hobbit up. His eyes widened in shock as Merry landed neatly on the saddle, looking just as surprised as Cobryn felt. The Rider whispered something in Merry's ear.

_So, he does get his wish after all,_ Cobryn thought with a smile on his face. He was not about to turn the Hobbit in—he only wanted to defend his king. There was nothing wrong with that, surely?

At that time, though, Cobryn did not know that he would be feasting upon his own words less than an hour later.

In the meantime, he decided to find Gúthwyn. If truth be told, he was a little worried for her, not least of all because of their conversation this morning. It was not easy for him to forget the bitterness that had infested her voice, already rank with hopelessness. At first, he had assumed it to be frustration that she could not fight with the men, and instead was left behind to wait and wish for her brother and uncle's safe return, but as he probed her further…

His eyes narrowed. "If I had children, would you protect them?" she had asked, and had not relented until he had given her a straight answer. What had been going through her mind, Cobryn would have done much to know. She had backed away when he inquired if she was with child; there was no bulge in her stomach, which was too thin for her own good, but that did not mean she was not pregnant.

Cobryn felt his spirits deflate as his mind drifted back to Feride. She had been so beautiful on the night they had first lain together, hidden in one of the disused storage rooms inside the ring. And he did not speak of her body, as most other men would have—she had smiled then, such as he had never seen her do before. They had both been nervous about what they were doing, but he had thought it all worth it the day she had come to him and whispered in his ear that she was with child.

How wrong he had been. Just five months later, she had been taken away, and now he had neither of them. Not Feride with her smile, so rare but on its appearance more precious than any of the jewels in all of Arda; nor their child, who would have been nearing its first birthday at this point.

Morosely, he kicked at a pebble on the ground. It skittered away aimlessly, and as it did so his thoughts returned to Gúthwyn. He knew she would never intentionally seek to remind him of his wife, but to mention children in such a matter… It was not at all something he would expect her to say, and it had caught him off-guard more than he would like to admit.

Furthermore, he did not think she was being truthful when she had mentioned her courses. He was not foolish; after over a decade in Isengard, he knew which week it was that the rags were most often used, and when the moods of the women in the dwelling took a turn for the worse. It was not the right time of the month—why was Gúthwyn lying to him?

Children… Perhaps she already had some? She had spent three years in Mordor, her only company being male warriors. It seemed near impossible that she had not sought love in the arms of one of them, or that…

_No,_ he told himself firmly. _Do not think of such things._

In any case, he could not imagine Gúthwyn keeping as big a secret as motherhood from him. Nor did it seem like she had already given birth: She was too small, her hips too narrow. So was she with child, then? His mind immediately leaped to Tun, but just as quickly he discarded the idea. Tun was in love with his lady, that was obvious; yet he respected her too much and would not dare to lie with her. And in any case, Gúthwyn appeared unaware of his affections, thinking they were only that of friendship.

Which left him back where he had started: Nowhere.

_Then find her, and determine for yourself what the truth of the matter is._

Cobryn decided to follow through on his idea, and scanned the Harrowdale. The last of the Riders had disappeared while he was lost in his musings; as a result, there were only about a hundred people in the camp. These were the old men, women, and children too young to see combat. None of them had dark hair.

Sighing, he turned his gaze up to the Firienfeld, his leg already protesting. Why Gúthwyn would remain there, he did not know, but she was definitely not in the valley. As he made his way towards the Stair of the Hold, he kept his eyes open for Éowyn, so that he might ask her of her sister's whereabouts. However, he did not see the White Lady of Rohan either.

At length he came to the stairs and stood there for a long time, wishing that he had thought to make a cane for himself.

"Daunting, are they not?"

Cobryn turned, and saw an older man coming up beside him. "Yes," he agreed, and gestured at his near-useless leg. "Especially when this has not hesitated to betray me before."

The man smiled sympathetically. "Age does wear on a body," he replied. "Though you do not look like you have seen thirty winters."

"Twenty-five," Cobryn said, and held out his hand. The man shook it. "Cobryn."

"Pleased to meet you, Cobryn. Aldor, advisor to the King."

Cobryn bowed, though Aldor waved away the formality. Even in his old age, the man carried a considerable amount of authority.

"Now," Aldor said, once the introductions had been made, "what is it that you search for? Or shall I ask whom?"

"Whom," Cobryn replied. "Gúthwyn, to be exact."

A soft smile came over Aldor's face. "Ah," he said. "The young lady. Well, I have not seen her today, nor her sister."

Cobryn frowned. "I spoke with her this morning, though she disappeared from my sight shortly after."

Aldor laughed. "Aye. As the king can attest to, in her childhood she was quite the difficult girl to hold onto. She always ran away to wrestle with the boys. None of us envied her caretakers."

Somehow, that did not surprise him. "I can picture that easily," he responded wryly, and Aldor chuckled.

"I will accompany you on your way up," the older man said. "I need to speak with the lady Éowyn, for I am now her councilor until Théoden returns."

Cobryn agreed to this, and soon the two of them were making their way up the Stair of the Hold. They must have made an amusing sight, for Aldor was panting by the time they had gotten halfway and Cobryn was clutching his leg in pain. Of equal temperament were they, however, and neither of them thought of stopping.

"Never again," Aldor gasped as they reached the Firienfeld. He ducked down, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Cobryn cursed both his leg and the makers of these impossible stairs. "Now I know how the horse feels," he grunted, massaging his thigh.

"What a pair of cripples we must look!" Aldor lamented. "I miss the days of my former strength."

"As do I," Cobryn replied, then straightened and glanced around the Firienfeld. There was no one there, something that disturbed him for some reason. "Do you think they might be in their tent?"

Aldor shrugged. "I would have thought that they would be in the Harrowdale… Maybe we did not look carefully enough?"

"I definitely did not see Gúthwyn down there," Cobryn said, and strode to where her tent was. Aldor followed closely behind. "Gúthwyn?" the former slave called, reluctant to step into her tent without permission.

There was no answer. Cobryn pulled aside the flap, and the two men looked upon an utterly empty space. Not so much as a single blanket was inside; it was completely devoid of anything. A sinking feeling began settling in his stomach.

"The horses," he said abruptly. Aldor glanced at him in confusion. "Where are their horses?"

Aldor stepped outside. "They should be—" Suddenly he stopped, and at his silence Cobryn flung himself out of the tent. "They are gone!"

"No," Cobryn muttered in disbelief. But it was true. There were no animals left in the paddock, something that he had not even noticed earlier.

"Do you think they brought them down to the Harrowdale?" Aldor asked in bewilderment.

For a long time, Cobryn did not answer. Unbidden, his mind flashed back to when he had seen a Rider lift Merry onto his saddle, not half an hour ago. The Rider had been thin and pale, with hair so gold that it made all else seem dull. And now that he thought of it, had there not been a smaller Rider behind them, with darker hair? He had assumed it a boy, but now…

Without warning, a howl of rage escaped him. Aldor jumped and stared at him in shock, but Cobryn paid no heed. How could he have been so _stupid?_ How could he have not realized this beforehand? How had he assumed that a random Rider would happen to take pity for the Halfling and offer him a seat on his horse?

"What is it?" Aldor questioned, not yet making the connection.

"Where are the messengers?" Cobryn demanded, resisting the urge to throttle the advisor.

For a moment, Aldor merely stood there. Then his eyes became wide. "They could not have…" he breathed in horror.

"They did!" Cobryn nearly shouted. "_Where are the messengers?_"

Aldor buried his face in his hands. "They have all gone with the king," he moaned. "And the only horses we have left here are too old to ride at a faster pace than a trot!"

"Is there no other way to send word to Théoden?" Cobryn asked, feeling panicked. If either Gúthwyn or Éowyn perished, he would never forgive himself. How could he not have taken into account that his friend delighted in fighting, and would do just about anything to help her people? And how could he have forgotten that the White Lady was a shieldmaiden, raised to deadly capabilities with a sword? And how, how, _how_ had he failed to remember the streak of pride within both of them, wider than the River Anduin?

"No," Aldor murmured, running his hand through his hair. "By the end of the day, they will be eighty miles from here. We have no means of reaching them!"

His words brought upon Cobryn a crashing sense of defeat. It was the same powerlessness with which he had watched Feride and Onyveth being dragged away, Feride with her emotionless face and Onyveth crying silent tears of terror—the same sense of all hope lost. In that moment, he bowed his head and sunk to his knees.

* * *

Gúthwyn stretched out her legs and sighed. It had been a long, hard day of riding. She estimated that they had gone close to thirty leagues. All around her the Riders were encamped, their horses shifting as the wind whispered softly in the night. They had been traveling for two days, not once relenting in their pace. Ever and anon, Théoden sent scouts to gather news; sometimes, they did not return. Those that did brought reports of the road being held against them as they drew nearer to Minas Tirith. Orcs were swarming through the hills around them, some less than ten miles away.

She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and tried to reassure herself that everything would be all right, that her uncle would find a way to avoid Sauron's troops. Yet so far, it seemed, he had not. Lurking in the shadows, she had seen him taking long council with her brother; Elfhelm, who had assumed the duties of the First Marshal of the Mark; and Grimbold, who was to command the third main _éored_ of the King's host. When the men at last emerged from Théoden's tent, their faces were always long.

There was a movement to her left, and Gúthwyn glanced up to see Éowyn settling down beside her. Aside from smiling, she did not say anything, as the other men in their company had gathered around the same fire. As a matter of fact, she had not spoken so much as a single sentence the entire trip, for fear of her voice giving her away. Éowyn had done the talking, when Merry's presence had been called into question; she had some understanding, apparently, with Elfhelm, who was in charge of their _éored_. Gúthwyn was not aware of the exact details, but most of the men seemed to ignore the Halfling because of it, and pretended that they did not notice him.

Gúthwyn felt rather badly for the poor Hobbit, who oftentimes looked as if he regretted coming, but her mind was too anxious about what lay ahead to focus overmuch on him. Already there was a snag in her plan: These Orcs that sought to block all entry into Minas Tirith—clearly, the White City was well besieged. Gandalf must have been inside it, as well as Pippin; she did not doubt that Merry's thoughts were turned towards his friend in these dark times.

As for her, all of her mind was focused on Mordor. She could hardly believe that she had dismissed the children's lives so easily not two weeks ago. As always, she had been blinded by her emotions, unable to see that they were in all probability still alive. Even though she could not finish her task, she had a chance of rescuing poor Hammel and Haiweth. Because she had not realized this earlier, her success now depended on factors over which she had no control.

Tears threatened to form in her eyes as she relived her farewells. None of them—Théoden, Éomer, Lebryn, and Tun—knew that she would never see them again. They thought that she was safe at Dunharrow, awaiting their return. It might be they who would travel to the halls of their fathers, but the lady Gúthwyn remained protected, guarded carefully by the people. Even Éowyn was not aware that her sister would leave her in the end, though the battle might be won. It was enough to make her want to sob, but she could not. She had displayed enough weakness in the past few weeks.

Éowyn glanced over at her then. In order to keep her sister from seeing her glistening eyes, she lay down on her pallet, covering herself effectively with a small blanket. Curling up, caring not if someone recognized her peculiar sleeping habits, she closed her eyes in an attempt to get some rest. Yet no sooner had she done so than she became aware of a strange drumming noise, faint at first, but then growing louder so that she could not ignore it. The very earth seemed to be throbbing with their deepness.

Confused, she was about to ask Éowyn in an undertone when she heard the sound of someone cursing profusely. Abandoning all thoughts of sleep for the moment, Gúthwyn sat up and saw Elfhelm recovering his balance. Apparently he had stumbled over something. When she looked closer, she saw that it was Merry, and winced.

The Halfling seemed to speak in response to Elfhelm's muttered oaths. Then he added, "The least you can do in amends is to tell me what is afoot."

Gúthwyn sat up straighter and listened carefully. Evidently, the Halfling had also heard the drums. "Anything that can keep so in this devil's mirk," Elfhelm now replied, sounding harried. "But my lord sends word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move."

She and Éowyn exchanged looks. Had Théoden found a way to evade the Orcs at last?

Merry appeared anxious. "Is the enemy coming?" he queried, sitting up with a start and scanning the nearby trees for signs of movement. That night, they were camped beside the Druadan Forest—according to legend, these woods had been the old home of the real-life Púkel-men. Gúthwyn was unsure whether to believe them or not. After all, she had been proven wrong about the Ents, which were assuredly very real.

The Halfling continued pressing Elfhelm. "Are those their drums?" he inquired, cocking his head to listen to them better. "I began to think I was imagining them, as no one else seemed to take any notice of them."

"Nay, nay," Elfhelm replied. "The Enemy is on the road, not in the hills. You hear the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods: thus they talk together from afar."

Gúthwyn marveled to hear such tidings. Yet another one of the creatures from childhood stories walked the earth—what strange times these were! First Hobbits, then Ents, and now the Woses. _Well,_ she thought gloomily, scuffing at the ground with her booted foot, _at least I will have experienced all of this before I return to Mordor._

"And now," Elfhelm said then, taking her from her musings, "I must busy myself with my lord's commands. Pack yourself up, Master Bag!"

Blinking in confusion, Gúthwyn struggled to understand what was going on. Ahead in the trees, there was a great flickering of lanterns that appeared to be traversing a path. She exchanged a look with Éowyn; then, she saw Merry standing up and trailing after Elfhelm. Without a moment's hesitation, Gúthwyn got to her feet as well. Not waiting to see if her sister followed her, she went behind the Halfling, trusting him not to lead her astray.

Merry did not seem as if he noticed her. At length, they came to a clearing in the trees, where a tent had been erected for Théoden. Upon seeing her uncle and Éomer, who was standing beside him along with several guards, she shrunk further into the shadows. Then she had to suppress as a gasp as she saw the figure that stood before the two men. A low intake of breath told her that Éowyn was watching, as well.

This creature—she could not bring herself to describe it as a person—was clearly one of the Wild Men whom Elfhelm had spoken of. He was surprisingly short and thick, his skin stretching over his broad shoulders. She could see ripples of wrinkled flesh surrounding the arms and legs, which were utterly bare but for a small patch of grass around his waist. In the light of a hanging lantern, she thought he looked almost like a combination between a troll and a stunted Ent.

As she gaped in astonishment at the sight, still hidden behind a tall tree, she realized that the creature was speaking in the Common Tongue. At first, she had assumed the hoarse grunts emanating from his mouth a strange speech of the Wild Men, but it was not so.

"No, father of the Horse-men," the creature said haltingly, stumbling over some of the words, "we fight not. Hunt only. Kill _gorgûn_ in woods, hate Orc-folk."

Gúthwyn could barely understand what he was saying. Théoden and Éomer looked as if they were having similar difficulties, though when the man at last finished, her brother replied:

"But our need is in aid for battle. How will you and your folk help us?"

Bewildered, Gúthwyn wondered why the Wild Men had offered to assist the king and his men. Was it their hatred of the Orcs, or was all this a trap to waylay the Rohirrim?

"Bring news," the creature croaked. His voice was as one with a rasping cough, added to with an irritating slowness that mimicked that of Treebeard's. "We look out from hills. We climb big mountain and look down. Stone-city is shut."

From what Gúthwyn could gather, he went on to confirm that which they already knew: A host of Orcs, far greater than they, was holding the road against them.

"Alas!" Théoden cried in distress. "He speaks all too shrewdly. And our scouts say that they have cast trenches and stakes across the road. We cannot sweep them away in sudden onset."

Gúthwyn tore her eyes away from the group to glance at Éowyn. She had not heard the news of the trenches and stakes; now, even more unrest assailed her heart. How were they to get through this? Éowyn's troubled gaze did not appear to hold any answers.

"Let Ghân-buri-Ghân finish!" the creature exclaimed, and Gúthwyn blinked at his name. "More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no _gorgûn_ walk, only Wild Men and beasts."

Ghân-buri-Ghân told them of how these paths had been created by what must have been the Gondorians (he referred to them as Stonehouse-folk, and was under the impression that they ate stone for food), in the days of their old power and might. Now the way was long forgotten, but apparently the Wild Men still employed its usage for their own purposes. Ghân-buri-Ghân was proposing to take the entire host through this road, all so the Rohirrim could slaughter the Orcs that disturbed his people.

Éomer turned to Théoden. "Do you think he might betray us, my lord?" he inquired in Rohirric, casting a suspicious glance at Ghân-buri-Ghân. "I have not heard of this road before."

"Neither have I," Théoden replied; "yet whether it is there or not, the fact remains that our current path leads only to an army of Orcs who would cut us down with ease."

"So shall we chance an ambush of the Wild Men, instead?" Éomer's eyes were narrowed. Just as he was slow to trust any man whom his sisters were friends with, he was loath to rely on the assistance of strange creatures.

"It seems that we must," Théoden said, with a small sigh. "I wish in these days we did not have to be so wary of other folk! To me, there is a lesser threat if we follow him. He may lead us into a trap. But a shroud of darkness has suddenly been laid on me, and I deem that either way my fate shall not escape me."

Gúthwyn wondered at her uncle's odd words, and Éomer clearly did as well: There was a long silence before at last he answered. "So be it," he declared, bowing his head. "Though I do not like being rendered so helpless, it seems this is just one more time when I am forced to endure such discomforts."

His voice took a surprisingly bitter turn as he spoke, and beside her Éowyn stiffened. Gúthwyn's mind fell on a certain councilor, hunched over with greasy hair sliding down his shoulders… What shadows her family had succumbed to in the years of the Serpent's dominion, she did not wish to think.

"We will receive your offer," Théoden announced then, turning to face Ghân-buri-Ghân. "For though we leave a host of foes behind, what matter? If the Stone-city falls, then we shall have no returning. If it is saved, then the Orc-host itself will be cut off. If you are faithful, Ghân-buri-Ghân, then we will give you rich reward, and you shall have the friendship of the Mark forever."

Gúthwyn's left side was beginning to ache from pressing into the tree bark for so long, but she did not dare move for fear of attracting attention. She was risking much just by coming here, and she did not want to jeopardize her disguise. As she tried to ignore the pain in her shoulder, where the jagged end of a tiny branch was poking her, she heard Ghân-buri-Ghân talk once more.

"Dead men are not friends to living man, and give them no gifts. But if you live after the Darkness, then leave the Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts anymore."

The creature must have been speaking of ancient times, when the reach of the kingdom was longer; in her recollection, none of the Rohirrim or Gondorians had ever pursued the Woses for their own sport.

"Ghân-buri-Ghân will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of the Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."

Gúthwyn felt a small, wry grin tugging at her mouth as she imagined her uncle riding alongside this leader of the Wild Men. The two of them could not have looked more different. Indeed, the whole scene was rather absurd.

Yet Théoden did not hesitate to exclaim, "So be it!"

Once more, she and Éowyn glanced at each other. _Do not let my doom lie in the dark woods,_ Gúthwyn prayed. _At the very least, bring me to the battlefield, so that there my prowess may be the decider of whether I am worthy of life or not._

She curled her fingers about the hilt of her sword. _Soon, Framwine,_ she vowed. _Soon._


	15. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book, though there are obviously things I had to make up because we do not know much about this stage of the journey. My apologies for the horrendously boring fourteenth chapter; unfortunately, those things must be explained, no matter how tedious. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Fifteen**

Gúthwyn ducked to avoid a low branch above her head, and as she did so she became aware of a growing light. Looking up, she saw that the trees had broken their lines and opened up to a stony valley. She breathed a sigh of relief: For the entire day, Ghân-buri-Ghân had led the Rohirrim through the thick, dark Druadan Forest, accompanied by a guard of Wild Men. She had not seen them, because they were scouting far ahead for signs of the Enemy, but they were still there.

Now, all of the Riders were emerging into what was known as the Stonewain Valley. Before them was a smaller wood, not part of the forest that they had just left. This would be their last protection; afterwards, they would leave the cover of the trees, abandon all thoughts of secrecy, and ride hard to the aid of Minas Tirith. Tomorrow, as the dawn rose over the lands, the White City would be in their sights.

But for now, all was dark. It had been so for the entire day, or perhaps it was merely the forest that blocked the sun's light. Yet she had wrapped both Borogor and Chalibeth's cloaks around her against the unseemly darkness, shivering in it as she guided Heorot through the trees. Several times, she had even wondered if the disappearance of the sun was some contrivance of the Enemy.

Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn noticed Éowyn surreptitiously guiding Windfola closer to the king, hoping to hear what he was saying to Ghân-buri-Ghân. Merry remained unnoticed: Éowyn took care to keep out of her uncle's sight. As of now, the leader of the Wild Men was squatting low to the ground, reporting the tidings of his folk to Théoden.

The two sisters came within hearing range as Ghân-buri-Ghân said, "Walls stand up no longer: _gorgûn_ knock them down with earth-thunder and with clubs of black iron."

Gúthwyn's mouth thinned. Boromir, in a time that seemed years long past, had told her that Minas Tirith was guarded by more than just the walls of its city. There was an outer wall, known as the Rammas Echor, which was in the northwest ten miles from the gates. With Gondor's declining people, it was no surprise that the Orcs had overwhelmed the guard at this defense.

"They are unwary," Ghân-buri-Ghân continued, his face contorting as he spoke of Sauron's forces, "and do not look about them. They think their friends watch all roads!" Then he made a curious noise with his throat; it took Gúthwyn several seconds to figure out that he was laughing.

There was a light in Éomer's eyes as he exclaimed, "Good tidings! Even in this gloom hope gleams again. Our Enemy's devices oft serve us in his despite."

Unexpectedly, Gúthwyn remembered the flight of the Fellowship from Moria. The Orcs had laid there a fire that was meant to cut off their escape before they reached the bridge, yet Gandalf had navigated them to the other side. Instead, it was the creatures, foiled by their own trap, who had been unable to pursue them out of the Mines.

The sound of Éomer speaking again withdrew her from her musings. "The accursed darkness itself has been a cloak to us. And now, lusting to destroy Gondor and throw it down stone from stone, his Orcs have taken away my greatest fear. The out-wall could have been held long against us."

He had a fair point. Gondor may not have been able to defend itself, but the Enemy was certainly able to do a far better job. Gúthwyn honestly had no idea how many Orcs Sauron had bred, as she had only once ventured beyond the bounds of the human encampment, though she could only imagine the numbers. Aragorn had estimated a hundred thousand, maybe even more.

For a brief moment, she thought of the Ranger. What had driven him to the madness of seeking out the Paths of the Dead, she did not know. Éowyn had not been able to turn him away from this folly, nor had Gúthwyn—admittedly, however, she had been more intent on berating him for what he had done to her sister. Yet he was not the only one who had partaken in this insanity. Legolas and Gimli had gone with him.

Once again, she repressed a shudder at the thought of the Elf. In this current darkness, he seemed more akin to Haldor than ever. Legolas had always been polite to her, moreso than she likely deserved, but every time their eyes met she remembered Haldor's far crueler ones.

"Kill _gorgûn_!" The cry startled her out of her thoughts, and Gúthwyn glanced over to see Ghân-buri-Ghân pounding his fist against the ground. As he did, Éomer's gaze traveled beyond the Wose and landed on her. Her brother did not recognize her, and soon returned his attention to the leader of the Wild Men, but her heart nearly failed her in that moment, so that she did not hear much of what was said after.

Soon, Ghân-buri-Ghân touched the ground between his feet, in some sort of farewell. He straightened, and was about to depart when he halted suddenly. His nose twitched as if he were smelling something; then, he cried, "Wind is changing!"

Gúthwyn barely had time to blink before he and the Wild Men had all vanished into the trees. To her, it seemed like the forest had devoured them whole, and she cringed to think of it. Swallowing hard, she looked at Éowyn.

Her sister's face was impassive and cold in that dark moment. The Rohirrim were now on their own, and whatever was to happen would be entirely of their own making.

* * *

Dawn had come. Pale rays of light shone onto the skeletal city of Gondor, once mighty in its glory and now ablaze with fire and ruin. Inside, the defenders were low on weaponry; they fought now using only their courage, and no hope had they left. In that hour, the Rohirrim arrived, cresting the broad hill to look upon the Pelennor Fields and the White City. Horns unnumbered heralded their approach, and their banners streamed in the early morning wind.

Gúthwyn felt the sun all around her as she caught her first glimpse of Minas Tirith, the place Boromir had spoken so highly of. Yet smoke shrouded much of it, and dark clouds hung about the walls. Her heart froze as a familiar winged shape passed over the city walls, a horrible faint wailing coming from its mouth. The Nazgûl had come to fulfill their master's orders, and by no means were they the lesser force.

Then her gaze, already quailed by the shrieking of the Black Riders and their steeds, fell upon the army that assailed Minas Tirith. What she had first assumed to be ash covering the ground she now realized were the Orcs. Nothing of the Pelennor Fields could she see, so many were there. It was easily over a hundred thousand. They stretched for over a mile wide and surrounded the entire city. The Rohirrim, with seven thousand cavalry, could not expect to save Gondor. She was lost, as were they. As were the children.

Éomund's youngest daughter felt a cold numbing sensation sweep through her, at the same time as the other Riders gazed upon the city and felt fear of the utmost kind freeze their hearts. Gúthwyn, her horse beside Éowyn's on the front line of this hopeless assault, saw her sister wrap a comforting arm around the terrified Hobbit before her.

"Courage, Merry," she heard her whisper. "Courage for our friends."

Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed. So it seemed that she had come to the one hitch in her plan that she could not get around. In that case, she decided, it was better to follow Éowyn's advice: She would go down fighting. Enough honor had she cast away in Haldor's bed. Now was the time for brave deeds with no reward, for a dark ending without a light to see it by.

So she watched, mustering all her strength, as the Orcs attempted to form ranks. A thin smile curled up her face. They were too hesitant. Those in the front would be swept away with as much ease as if a gigantic sea had emptied its waters onto them. She was beginning to feel adrenaline pulsing through her veins; before much time had passed, she would be slaying these creatures, their blood spattering onto her hands.

Théoden, Éomer, Gamling, Elfhelm, Grimbold, and other officers of high ranking stepped out from the lines. Her uncle's posture was firm and determined. He had seen the same daunting numbers as Gúthwyn, but like her he would not let them deter his attack.

"Éomer!" he called as he passed her brother. "Take your _éored_ down the left flank!"

Gúthwyn barely had time to pray for Éomer's safety before he turned Firefoot around. "Flank ready!" he exclaimed.

"Gamling, follow the king's banner down the center!" Théoden ordered next. With a twinge of nervousness, she saw that Snowmane was drawing nearer to her and Éowyn. If their disguise was unveiled now, it did not much matter, for they would see combat no matter what, but she did not want to go into battle with their uncle's disappointment hanging over her head.

Théoden checked his horse then, and rode close to Grimbold. "Grimbold! Take your company right after you pass the wall."

Grimbold did not say a word, but wheeled his horse around to do the king's bidding. After his officers, Théoden declared, "Forth! And fear no darkness!"

"Fear no darkness," Gúthwyn repeated to herself in the lowest voice possible. Even as she murmured those words, her hands shook violently. Yet it was not from terror of death: It was from excitement, even greater than it had been at Helm's Deep. Compared to this, that had been child's play.

"Arise!" Théoden urged, and Snowmane brought the king directly in front of her and Éowyn. "Arise, Riders of Théoden!"

Discreetly, Gúthwyn looked down, lest he should meet her gaze and know that it was her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éowyn doing the same. Mercifully, their worries came to naught, and Théoden passed them by without a sign of recognition.

"Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered!" Théoden yelled, racing down the front lines of his people. Gúthwyn could feel the old battle lust within her reawakening, never truly dimmed but at this moment blazing keener than ever. Overhead, the sun streamed onto her uncle, making his armor burn gold and him seem like a god of war. None of the other leaders, not even her own brother, could hold a candle to his glory.

She watched with growing anticipation as Théoden continued. "A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"

At his words, the Riders all held their spears before them. Gúthwyn followed suit; she did not know how to wield it, but soon she would abandon it in favor of the sword. For now, it was enough to be part of her people, to feel this thrill coursing through her blood and making her tremble with a strange glee.

A sudden clanging noise caught her attention, and glancing down the lines she saw her uncle riding back towards them. Herugrim shone in the morning light, gleaming coldly as it met the spears of the Riders. Ever Théoden drew closer to her. "Ride now!" he shouted as he went. "Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending!"

Nothing short of wild abandonment and exhilaration swept over Gúthwyn then, utterly destroying all other senses. As Théoden turned to face the Orcs, she realized that it was _pride_, the Rohan pride, that covered her in its joyous blanket. Hope may have been useless, but now it did not matter.

"Death!" Théoden yelled, raising his sword high above his head. The Riders echoed it after him, waving their spears in a frenzy for battle, ready to perish so valiantly that songs were made of their end. "Death!"

A grin of exaltation spread across her face, and on the third time that Théoden cried out she screamed "Death!" along with her people. She thought her heart would burst as the roars surrounded her, so loud that she could not even hear the clanking of armor. It would not be long now.

"Forth Eorlingas!" Théoden shouted, and in answer a hundred horns signaled for a charge. With his sword pointed at his foes, the king of Rohan began moving forward. Tumultuous cries resounded in the air as his people went after him, heeding not the danger that lay before them. Gúthwyn urged Heorot on, her face glowing with eagerness.

Glorious was the Ride of the Rohirrim to the defense of Gondor. Like an unstoppable tide they stormed upon the forces of Mordor in what was the greatest cavalry charge since the coming of Eorl the Young to the Field of Celebrant. Forth rode the king, and none could surpass him in his hour of bold deeds. Like a beacon of light Snowmane led them all, shining even amidst the darkness.

Never before had Gúthwyn experienced anything such as this, and she delighted in every second of it. They were closing in on the Orcs with ferocious intensity, and though some Riders were felled by the Enemy's archers, the effect was that of removing just a few blades of grass in a meadow. She gave a loud battle cry, raising her spear and preparing to throw it. So many were the Orcs that she could not possibly miss.

And then, the armies clashed. Gúthwyn released her spear, and it slammed into one of the Orcs. She hastily withdrew her sword, but for a moment she did not even need it: at first, the Enemy was mainly trampled by their horses. If an Orc did not perish under the feet of one, there were hundreds more behind it. They were already retreating when the blades of the Eorlingas began their deadly dance; as soon as the glittering swords were unveiled, it became a full rout.

Even over the carnage, Gúthwyn heard someone—Éomer?—crying, "Drive them to the river!"

Purpose enflamed her, and she wheeled Heorot around to obey the orders. All around her, the Rohirrim were doing the same. She had barely used her sword; more than eager was Framwine to sate his thirst.

"Make safe the city!" Théoden called. Gúthwyn roared along with the other men as they went to pursue the Orcs. But something was wrong. The Orcs were not, in fact, fleeing to the river.

A new sound came drifting towards her: Foreign chanting, unlike anything she had heard before. More than this, however, was what the Orcs were scrambling towards. Halting Heorot, Gúthwyn stared in amazement and shock. Through the smoke that engulfed the far end of the battlefield, gigantic shapes were emerging. In all her life, nothing had seemed so strange as that which she now beheld.

These were the Oliphaunts of legend, bred in the far reaches of Harad. Haldor had once taunted her, claiming that she was as slow to get dressed as a dying one was to move. At the time she had not known what they were, though she had later learned of them from Borogor. The creatures themselves were as big as hills, never mind the silk towers that had been constructed upon them. They were grey, with sharp rows of horns dangling from their noses. Only twenty or so were there, but, as Gúthwyn realized with a sinking heart, they would cause more than enough damage to the Rohirrim.

A long, piercing horn echoed over the Pelennor Fields, and it came to her that she recognized it from her days in Mordor. Haradrim troops had arrived by the hundreds each month, always sounding this call to signal their approach. The Easterlings used a different one. Gaping at them, Gúthwyn saw that the men rode on top of the Oliphaunts. She wondered if any of their faces would be familiar to her.

"Reform the line!" someone yelled, and she saw Théoden turning Snowmane around to command his men. "Reform the line!"

They hastened to obey his orders. Gúthwyn found herself towards the front of the ranks, though not as far forward as she would have liked. She chanced a glance around her, praying to see Éowyn. To her relief, she thought she saw her sister's hair spilling out from beneath a helmet. Éomer was beside the king, she knew, but what of Tun and Lebryn?

_No matter now,_ she told herself sternly, and faced the Oliphaunts. Her adrenaline soared to the skies.

"Sound the charge!" Théoden ordered. "Take them head on!"

Next to her uncle, Gamling lifted a horn to his mouth and blew one loud, long note. The Rohirrim roared, preparing to meet this new challenge.

"Charge!" Théoden yelled, and Gúthwyn's horse reared up before racing towards the Haradrim. She vowed to slay one of the Oliphaunts, whom as a child she might have delighted in watching.

But as they drew nearer to her, she began to understand that this was not as simple a task as it might have seemed. Between the Oliphaunts' horns there were taut spiked chains, made especially for the purpose of catching any opposing cavalry. Their feet were enormous, and must have weighed a ton. In addition, the Haradrim all carried bows, ready to take advantage of their enemies when they were weakened by the animals.

Indeed, the Rohirrim had barely begun to attack when the Oliphaunts were upon them, sweeping dozens away with their horns. Gúthwyn steered Heorot away from the sharp ivory, breathing in the overwhelming scent of the creatures and hoping that none of them crushed her beneath their feet. All around her, she saw her people being killed. Most were unlucky to be trampled by the Oliphaunts, though the Haradrim were no poor marksmen.

Gúthwyn had not thought to bring a bow, and now cursed herself for her stupidity, but the majority of the Riders had remembered. Soon the Oliphaunts' legs were as stuck with arrows as a pincushion with needles, but for all the good it did, the darts might as well have been mosquito bites: Harmless, yet vastly irritating.

Somehow managing to survive the first rush through, Gúthwyn pulled out on the other side of the Haradrim. Although sides did not matter anymore—many of the Oliphaunts had turned around to face the Rohirrim again, and vice versa. In the entire charge, she had landed her sword only once on the thick hide, though it had not done much to affect it. Looking around, trying to find a commander who might know what to do, she saw Éomer backing up and facing one of the enormous beasts.

Ducking a misguided arrow, she watched her brother heft up his spear. "Follow me!" he yelled, and with that he threw it. Such was his expertise that the spear flew directly into the chest of the man steering the Oliphaunt. The Southron's triumphant expression was cut short as he fell from the creature, dangling from its ear by a long chain. With a howl of agony, the Oliphaunt veered to its left, crashing into another one of the animals and impaling it with its horns. Gúthwyn stared in awe as the two of them collapsed on each other, rendered helpless by a simple device.

Inspired by this, she decided to find her own way to reduce the numbers of the Haradrim. She sighted an Oliphaunt near her, shying away from its fallen comrades. "Framwine, now is your moment!" she murmured, and with that she urged Heorot forward, heading directly underneath its legs. She swallowed hard when she saw a guard trampled by that same beast, yet refused to back down.

Dodging its horns, at the same time she lifted her sword and drove it into the Oliphaunt's leg. Without a breath in between the two strikes, she repeated the motion a second time; now, on the opposite leg. Just a second later, Framwine's steel found purchase on the third limb, and then the fourth. As Gúthwyn rode out from underneath the animal, she heard it howl in pain. When she glanced back, it had sunk to its knees, the grey legs buckling underneath it.

A wild grin spread across her face. All about her, the Rohirrim had recovered from the initial shock of seeing such massive creatures assaulting them. Now the cry went up to aim for the Oliphaunts' heads. Gúthwyn was unable to, but she was content enough to hack at the animals' legs. Never again did she ride under one, as they began crumpling regularly enough for such an action to become a hazard, though she managed to navigate Heorot sufficiently close to inflict vast damage.

More and more of the Oliphaunts fell. There were only about ten left; now the Orcs reentered the fray, along with the unseated Haradrim. Gúthwyn decided to avoid the rampaging animals for the time being, and concentrated her attention on the enemy below her. This was a far easier task, as she had the advantage of height. With astonishing ease she cut through men and Orc alike, hardly pausing to savor in each victory before moving on to the next one.

How long the battle had been going, she remained unaware, but all of a sudden she heard Théoden's voice. A wave of relief washed over her to know that he was still alive. "Rally to me!" he yelled. "To me!"

Gúthwyn wheeled Heorot about, searching for her uncle or his standard, yet it was then that a shadow obscured the battlefield. An unbearable shriek rose through the air, raising bumps along her skin and nearly causing her to clamp her hands over her ears. Heorot whinnied in terror; for a frightening moment, she could hardly control him.

Indeed, she herself now stared in horror at the Nazgûl swooping down towards them. Friend and foe both scattered, she not the least among them. What happened next, she could not say, as she steered Heorot as far away from the Black Rider as possible. So she did not see when the Witch-king of Angmar cast Snowmane to the ground, nor when the white horse pinned her uncle helplessly beneath him. She did not watch as Éowyn revealed herself and came to the aid of Théoden, slaying the Nazgûl's steed and at last the Rider. Nor did she learn that day of how the king of Rohan perished, looking last upon the face of his niece. She thought they had both escaped.

Turning Heorot around so that he now faced the city, she was about to find another Oliphaunt when something green emerged in the corner of her eye. Raising a gloved hand over her gaze to see better, at first she thought that she was seeing things. Then she gasped as what appeared to be a host of shadow men came pouring from the river, mowing down countless Orcs with hardly a swing of their transparent swords.

_What on Middle-earth is this?_ she wondered in amazement, tearing her eyes away for the briefest second in order to slay one of the Haradrim. When she next glanced up, the unexpected help had drawn closer. A familiar figure was leading them…

She gasped again as Aragorn drove his sword through an Orc not thirty yards away from her. A staggering realization came over her: These were the Dead that had haunted the Dwimorberg, whom the Ranger had sought in apparent madness! Gúthwyn could scarcely believe her eyes, but these were undoubtedly them. Their armor and clothing were torn and ragged, their eyes empty sockets in their skeletal frames. Rusted swords and hatchets they wielded, though a mere touch of their bodies was enough to kill.

_Do not just stand there like a fool!_ a voice in her head ordered her. _Do something!_

Coming back to herself, she looked around just in time to see an Orc charging at her, seeking to take her at unawares. With a cry, Gúthwyn clove his head in two, delighting in the sight as his body crumpled to the ground. Then Heorot swerved dangerously: An Oliphaunt had narrowly missed them.

Gúthwyn was about to attempt her tried-and-true method of cutting the animals down when someone yelled, "Legolas!"

Momentarily dumbstruck, she checked her horse as a slender figure ran towards the Oliphaunt, carrying nothing but his bow. Under her astonished eye, Legolas leaped at the animal, landing effortlessly on one of the tusks. Avoiding the arrows sent towards him from the Haradrim, he scrambled up the horns. The Oliphaunt swatted at him with its long nose, but he managed to leap onto the creature's legs, using the countless arrows as handholds.

At that moment, she was attacked by a few Orcs, and her attention was diverted as she dispatched of them. When Framwine was sticky with black blood, she looked back up and saw that Legolas had climbed atop the Oliphaunt. How he had managed to do so, she could not even begin to imagine. The Haradrim were attempting to shoot him down, but the bow of the Galadhrim proved the mightier. She watched them tumble helplessly off of the Oliphaunt, and had to grudgingly admit that Legolas was an extraordinary warrior.

She turned away from him then, pursuing a small group of Orcs to their deaths. There were not much left now—where had they all gone? There had been hundreds, thousands, not moments ago…

There was a great crashing noise, one that caused the ground to shake beneath Heorot. Gúthwyn glanced over and saw the Oliphaunt collapsing, his trunk rolling out onto the dirt. As it did, Legolas slid down it, leaping off lightly and sighing as if it had been no matter. Words could not express Gúthwyn's shock; she did not even try. Looking past him, she saw an even more awe-inspiring sight.

The army of the Dead had swept away all of the Orcs. Those few Haradrim left over were fleeing along with their Oliphaunts, but as she followed them with her eyes a cluster of the Dead leaped onto one of the animals. With several squealing noises, they devoured the thing like a pack of rodents. She shuddered, and moved her gaze past them towards the city. Waves of green were flowing into it, like a cleansing bath after a long hard journey.

She could barely believe it. The battle of the Pelennor Fields was over. Her people were safe, regrouping not too far from her. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were back against all odds. The sun was shining brilliantly, casting a pure white light onto the countless Orc bodies. The Rohirrim had won, and Gondor was saved.

_Excellent,_ she thought in astounded delight, hardly daring to think that all of this was true. _Now for the hard part._


	16. Exchange

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book. In addition, I recognize that some of the upcoming events will, to many, seem far-fetched. So it may be, but do recall that lots of strange things happen in Middle-earth. (Not to mention the fact that I came up with it in sixth grade, so cut me some slack, lol.) Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Sixteen**

Night had fallen over the ruined city of Minas Tirith. A grey rain had doused the fires earlier in the day, and now all was shrouded in smoke. The streets were crowded with those bringing in the dead and wounded, and those attempting to find loved ones in the carnage. For battle had been brought into the city: The gates, long thought impregnable, had been breached, and the Orcs had ascended into the upper levels. They brought with them fire, and had scorched many of the ancient buildings.

In the midst of this, dozens wandered around aimlessly. Others went with a hurried purpose, perhaps to carry some message to a commander or to bring supplies to the Houses of Healing, which was where the wounded were being sent. Gúthwyn was one of the latter, though her mission was far different. She sought the stables where Shadowfax was being kept.

Alone and unheralded she had entered the city, picking her way over the dead bodies to pass through the gates. She saw biers being brought down the streets, but did not know that they were for her own uncle and sister. Instead, she was attempting to find her way around Minas Tirith. If she had seen this in better times, she thought, it would have been beautiful. Yet now she only felt lost and confused.

_Whoever came up with the idea of having seven levels to this city deserves to be trampled by an Oliphaunt,_ she decided angrily, wiping some grime from her face. She had been trying to locate the stables for nearly an hour, and had had no luck. Nor could she figure out how to find the third level; there seemed to be no gates in sight. Frustrated beyond belief, at the same time refusing to let this tiny detail become another obstacle before her goal, she made up her mind to seek out the help of another.

The first person she saw afterwards was a young Gondorian man of perhaps eighteen or so, still adorned in his armor. Gúthwyn went over to him. "Excuse me," she said, trying to deepen her voice as much as possible. "Do you know where the stables are? I was sent to take care of my father's horse, but I cannot find him."

The man nodded. "I will lead you to them," he replied, "for it is easy to get lost, and with all the rubble the way is made even more difficult."

Gúthwyn thanked him, but afterwards did not say much for fear of giving herself away. Her heart was pounding with what she was about to do, yet she would not jeopardize it for the world. Instead, she followed him as he took her down the street, passing under a large bastion of rock. It extended from the seventh level all the way down to the first, and from its sharp peak one could gaze out over all the Pelennor Fields.

As they went, she looked grimly upon all of the bodies littering in the streets. It grieved her to see that some of them were women and children, cut down as they ran from the Orcs. Mercifully, as they went higher along the winding road, the carnage became less, until at one level the streets were nearly empty, with the exception of messengers hurrying back and forth.

"The stables," the man explained, "are on the seventh level. We are on the fifth."

They spoke no more as they passed into the sixth level. Gúthwyn's legs, though used to long journeys, were soon aching. The hill that Minas Tirith had been built upon was over seven hundred feet tall, and in some places steeper than others. She supposed one had to live in this city to grow accustomed to it, for the man leading her did not seem at all affected.

At length, they came to the last level of the city, where there was much activity. The Houses of Healing, she was told, were here, and scores of people were hastening towards them. Women bustled in and out of the doors, carrying armfuls of bandages and assorted herbs. Gúthwyn could not watch them for long, however, as the Gondorian led her across the street to where the stables were.

"Thank you," she said as he opened the door for her. He bowed, and left.

Mercifully, there was no one in the stables. Her face shrouded by darkness, she passed as a shadow across the courtyard and entered the building. It was nowhere near as magnificent as that of Rohan's, but it was adequate enough. She scanned the stalls, searching for Shadowfax. It did not take long to find him: Though she could barely see anything, a pair of haughty eyes, which could not have belonged to a lesser horse gleamed at her from the corner.

"Shadowfax," she whispered, and edged closer to him. Her heart was hammering. In order to get Hammel and Haiweth—if they were even alive—out of Mordor before Sauron noticed that they were gone, she needed a mare as swift as the wind, and one that would not tire on the journey to the Black Land. If the _mearh_ permitted her to ride him, the children's transportation was certain. If not… She could always find Heorot, whom she had left on the first level, but he was already weary from battle. It would take almost a week, time which Hammel and Haiweth might not be guaranteed, to complete the trip from Mordor to Gondor. This was ignoring the fact that she did not have anything constituting a sufficient food supply.

As she thought of all this, she drew closer to Shadowfax. Like her previous encounters with him, the mighty horse let her approach, yet he kept a close watch on her. His eyes were daunting in themselves, to say nothing of his rippling muscles and gleaming coat.

"Shadowfax," she said again, swallowing nervously as she opened the door of his stall. "I need… I need you to let me ride you to the Black Land."

Even to herself, she sounded foolish. What did she expect? Horses certainly understood a few phrases, but not to the extent that she was speaking. Her words were likely falling on deaf ears as a mass of garbled mutterings. Shadowfax gazed at her unblinkingly, not appearing to take in the slightest thing she had said.

Gúthwyn sighed, and lowered Borogor's pack onto the ground. It had been with her during the battle, more of a hindrance than anything, though luckily she had not seen much fighting. Helm's Deep had been far more taxing—everywhere she turned, there had been an Uruk nearly twice her size attacking her. Carrying a pack into the fight would have been nothing short of inane then. As it was, she would not need it now.

Tenderly, she placed Framwine on top of her things. "Thank you, my friend," she murmured, running her fingers along the hilt one last time. With a wistful sigh, she straightened, and returned her attentions to Shadowfax. All this time he had watched her, not moving an inch.

Taking a deep breath, Gúthwyn drew nearer to the lord of horses. A shaking hand lowered onto his back. _Please, let him consent to bear me,_ she prayed, and put more pressure on her hand.

Shadowfax jolted. His head whipped around, startling her, and he turned so that she lost her grip. At the same time, he stepped forward, so that she was forced to move away. When she tried to mount him once again, he repeated his actions. Try as Gúthwyn might, she was unable to achieve any type of success. He simply refused to let her ride him.

After what seemed like the hundredth attempt, she was close to tears. It would not be possible to do this without Shadowfax. She only had a small loaf of bread on her, and any other horse would take close to a week to reach the Black Land. The meager amount of food would be enough for her to survive on during that time, but not for two children. With Shadowfax, however, she could travel the distance in just over a day, and not even need to eat.

"Please, Shadowfax!" she begged, reaching a hand out towards him. He whinnied, the sound quiet; all the same, her heart nearly froze for fear of someone hearing them. The last thing she needed was for someone to enter the stables and see her attempting to ride off with Gandalf the Grey's horse.

Lowering her voice, Gúthwyn said urgently, "Shadowfax, please! I have no intent to hurt you!"

For all the good that did, she might as well have spoken to the hay. The proud horse stared at her menacingly, swishing his tail and keeping his head firmly facing her. He would not allow her to come any closer.

Something hot and wet burned in the corner of her eyes. Before she could stop them, the tears tumbled down her cheeks. Miserable sobs of frustration and defeat wracked her body as she slid to the ground, burying her face in her hands. She had come so far—a battle had been won, a battle that had been hopeless! The only thing now between her and the children was this horse, this proud animal. To have her hopes elevated, and then watch them come cruelly crashing down around her, was almost more than she could stand.

"Hammel, Haiweth," she choked out, gasping their names into the night air. "I have failed…"

She cried even harder, feeling pathetic for letting her emotions run away with her but even worse for letting the children down. Had she not promised that she would return? Had she not vowed to herself that she would rescue them? How much had she done for their safety, how much of herself had she given to Haldor and sworn to Sauron, only to see it all brought to naught? Her tears fell faster, spattering onto the straw.

At that moment, something nudged at her forehead, dislodging the hood of Chalibeth's cloak. A muffled moan escaped her, and then was stifled in astonishment as she looked up and saw Shadowfax. The horse had kneeled on the ground in front of her, waiting only for her to mount him.

She could barely speak for shock. Her tears dried, leaving streaks on her face. Breathing raggedly, she stared at Shadowfax. And then, slowly at first, but then more sure of herself, she rose to her feet and got on top of him. He straightened beneath her; there was no saddle between her and his hide. She had ridden bareback before, though on nowhere near as fine a horse as that which was now below her.

Shadowfax was still, and she leaned close to his ear. "To Mordor, my friend," she whispered, wondering if he knew what to do.

An instant later, her heart almost failed her as he sprung away at the speed of lightning. Shadowfax's pace was faster than anything she had ever experienced; all around them, those on the streets sprang to the sides to let him pass. In the dark of night, no one identified her, nor even the horse. So it was that the next morning, when an empty stall was discovered in the stables, the culprit remained a mystery.

And thus Gúthwyn Éomund's daughter departed from the White City of Gondor, unnoticed by its people and passing as just another shadow in the blackness. She rode towards doom and despair, having no hope for herself; she knew that she would not be returning. Her only regret was that she had not gotten a chance to bid those she loved a final farewell.

* * *

Gúthwyn squeezed her legs tightly, and Shadowfax came to an abrupt halt. She was flung forward somewhat, but recovered her balance as she gazed up at that which hindered any further progress.

"We have made it, my friend," she murmured, wearily patting the horse on the neck.

The Black Gate of Mordor lay before her, rearing its cold black iron far above her head. It had been a little over a day since she had left Gondor, yet her surroundings had changed so drastically that a part of her was still reeling from its suddenness. After nearly a year's absence from the Dark Lord's realm, the acrid scent of the air stung at her nostrils and made her choke on its pungency.

It came to her how ridiculous she must have looked, unarmed—with the exception of the dagger Galadriel had given her—and alone, a mere speck caught between the vast mountains and the iron structures. Shrill terror assailed her, yet she swallowed her nerves and reminded herself that Hammel and Haiweth were behind the Morannon. _You are doing this for them,_ she thought. _This is their safety that is in danger._

If they were still alive.

_No. Do not think such things. Not now, not when you are so close._

Shadowfax whinnied, and Gúthwyn remembered that she had to give a password. All along the ramparts were Orcs and Men, gaping at her appearance. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she raised her voice and let loose a command in the Black Speech.

"Open the gates! I come here on orders of the Dark Lord!"

For a moment, there was no answer. Then there was a great creaking noise, and slowly the gates began to swing outwards, beckoning her with their dark arms. She gulped. "Do not worry," she told Shadowfax, more for her benefit than for his. "This will soon be over."

He snorted, tossing his proud head as if he had not a care in the world. His eyes, however, were narrowed into thin slits, and when she nudged him he hesitated before responding. Slowly he moved forwards, his muscles taut as he walked into the Black Land. Gúthwyn could scarcely contain her anxiety as the Morannon drew closer, yet she held her head high. The Orcs would sense her nervousness if she so much as imagined it, and she could not afford such perception.

As she entered the Dark Lord's realm, she glanced up and saw the Orcs preparing to signal the shutting of the Black Gate. Lifting up a hand, she yelled in the Common Tongue, "Leave it open! My errand will be brief, and I will not be pleased if there is a delay!" She injected just enough harshness in her voice so that she sounded like a commander. The Orcs, she suspected, remembered her well—remembered that she did, in fact, have a mission for the Dark Lord. They would not hinder her, and the gates did not close.

Some of them were making their way over to her cautiously. One of them approached her, extending his hand to lead Shadowfax away. The proud horse reared, kicking its legs threateningly at the creature. Gúthwyn managed to stay on; when Shadowfax had calmed, she snarled angrily, "Keep your filthy hands off of him, _snaga._" The term meant "slave" in the Black Speech. "He will be riding again soon, with the children on his back, and you will tell your friends not to slow their passing! Any disobedience will be reported to the Tower."

It was as if she had said the magic words. Immediately the Orc stiffened, and sent her such a look of hatred that it would have frozen her to the bone had she not endured far worse under the eyes of Haldor. However, she did not even blink under his gaze, and soon he glanced away. Smirking, she nudged Shadowfax forward, and gave the Orc a good kick in the head for his insolence. His companions muttered at this, but did not dare attempt anything.

As she did this, she saw a winged shadow passing overhead. It was one of the Nazgûl, and she watched as it wheeled away towards Barad-dûr. Her heart clenched. At best, she only had half an hour left to find the children—the Nazgûl had undoubtedly gone to inform his master of her arrival. A grim smile crossed over her face as she thought of how surprised Sauron would be, and the doubt that would fall upon him when no news came of Haldor.

Then she looked to Udûn. Unchanged it was, still the same countless rows of tents with the training grounds beyond them. A mass of men had gathered on them, though it did not seem as if they were doing much practicing. Her eyebrows knit in confusion: Rather, it appeared to her like the marshaling of an army.

She was about to ride Shadowfax towards the camp when she saw a man striding towards the Morannon, not twenty yards away from her. He had dark blonde hair, and walked with a familiar wary gait. Gúthwyn nearly fainted when she recognized Dîrbenn, all the more so as her eyes fell upon the child he held in his hands. A boy was moving alongside him. Hammel it was, and Haiweth was the girl in Dîrbenn's arms. The children were alive. They were safe.

Tears of unparalleled happiness streamed, unchecked, down her face. After all she had suffered, all she had withstood… All of it had been worth it.

At that moment, Dîrbenn glanced up, and saw her sitting atop Shadowfax. His mouth dropped open in shock, and he rubbed at his eyes as if he thought he were seeing a mirage. But it was then that the children noticed his diverted attention, and followed his gaze to where she was mounted on Shadowfax. They both shouted in delighted surprise.

Abandoning all thoughts of the dignity she had shown the Orcs, Gúthwyn urged the _mearh_ forward. She was so impatient that she all but leaped off of him ten feet away from the children, and ran the rest of the distance towards them.

"Hammel!" she cried first, embracing the boy tightly. He returned the gesture, and she noted that his arms had grown muscular from his labor. Fervently she kissed the top of his head, over and over, just to make sure that it really was him. The tears were still running unabatedly down her cheeks.

Yet soon she had to pull away. Hammel's dark eyes were wide in shock; he did not speak, save this: "You have come."

Gúthwyn nodded, and turned to Haiweth. The young girl was straining to hug her; Dîrbenn let go of her, so that the next instant Gúthwyn had her arms wrapped around a squealing, wiggling child. Shifting the girl to her right hip, she murmured her name, stroking her hair and realizing that this was truly happening. The children were still alive. They were still untouched by the darkness.

Still holding Haiweth, she glanced up at Dîrbenn. He had been watching the reunion with a smile on his face—it looked strange there, because she had not seen him do so for years—but the moment their eyes met he frowned. All too well he remembered what she had done after Borogor's death; all too well he remembered how she had betrayed his best friend and commander.

Yet he did not say anything of the old grudge now. "I was told to bring them to the Tower today," he instead told her, and she paled. "If you had come half an hour later…"

Gúthwyn clutched Haiweth tighter to her. Sauron's patience, it seemed, had run out at last. If he had ordered the children to the Tower, it was likely to throw them in some windowless pit, or torture them so that he might punish her for her delay.

But there was no time to dwell on such things. "Haiweth," she said, putting down the girl. Haiweth's grey eyes gazed dolefully up at her, so adorable that she very nearly did not have the strength to say what she had to. "Both you and Hammel are going to leave Mordor."

Haiweth looked confused, but Hammel's eyes widened. "Leave?" he repeated, glancing at Dîrbenn.

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, and pointed to Shadowfax. "He will bear you to Gondor. There are some things I must tell you…" She cast an anxious look over her shoulder. No sign of the Black Riders were in the air, but it would not be long until she could see them.

Abruptly, she picked up Haiweth, and took her over to Shadowfax. "Shadowfax," she whispered as she approached. "I need you to take her and her brother back to the White City."

The mighty horse snorted, but allowed her to place the young girl on his back. Gúthwyn kept a hand on Haiweth, and beckoned for Hammel to come over. He hesitated for a moment; then, he hugged Dîrbenn. The man's face twisted in surprise, though he soon smiled.

"Go on," he said, clapping his hand on Hammel's shoulder. "Do not worry for me."

Hammel nodded at him. Without a backward glance, he walked towards Gúthwyn. His expression remained unchanged throughout all of this, even as he let her boost him up onto Shadowfax. He sat behind Haiweth and wrapped his arms protectively around her. "Hammel," she said urgently, leaning close. "Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you."

His eyes narrowed in concentration, and it was the only sign she needed. "When you get to Gondor, I want you to seek out my brother Éomer. He is well known, and anyone you ask will be able to help you find him. If they tell you that he is too busy, give them my name."

Hammel nodded. Haiweth did not appear to know what was going on. "If you cannot find him even then, or if he has… if he has perished, look for the king of Rohan. He is my uncle. Yet if both of them be gone, search for my sister Éowyn. The Gondorians will know who she is. Whomever of my family you find, tell them…" A hard lump formed in her throat. "Tell them that I love them, and that I am sorry for causing them so much grief."

"You will not come?" Hammel asked quietly.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I cannot," she replied. "Even Shadowfax can only bear so many." She did not tell him of how Sauron's bargain had required that she exchange herself for them. "If this war should be won," she told him instead, "I have a friend named Cobryn, who swore he would protect any child of mine. Tell him that, since he does not have his own, he may look after you."

Something shone in Hammel's eyes, and she realized that they were tears. Yet when he spoke, his voice was steady. "I promise," he vowed.

Gúthwyn reached into her pocket for the loaf of bread. "Here," she said, giving it to him. "Shadowfax can complete the journey in less than two days, so be prepared for his swiftness. He will not let you fall."

"But Gúthwyn, what about you?" Haiweth asked then, her face puzzled.

Sighing, Gúthwyn answered with a heavy heart, "Do not worry. You are going to a better place."

"But you are, too!"

She felt as if she would break down into sobs right then and there. "No, Haiweth," she replied softly, reaching up to touch the little girl's cheek. "I am staying here."

Haiweth's grey eyes welled up with tears. "Then I do not want to go!" she exclaimed, and attempted to slide off of Shadowfax. Hammel held her too tightly, however, and she did not move. Her squirms became more frantic.

"Haiweth, I need you to be a brave girl for me," Gúthwyn said firmly, ignoring the bottomless sorrow filling her. "I will be fine. Someday, we will see each other again."

"No!" Haiweth cried, struggling to get to her.

"Farewell," Gúthwyn whispered.

She walked to Shadowfax's head. "Shadowfax," she muttered. "Thank you, my friend, for this service that I can never hope to repay you for."

He looked at her, and she stroked his mane briefly before withdrawing her hand. "Ride hard," she said, taking a step back.

The last she saw of the children was Hammel silently gazing at her, and Haiweth's face screwing up in misery. Then Shadowfax gave a great leap, springing forth with more speed than an arrow of the Elves. The sound of his galloping was like thunder, and all the Orcs cowered at his passing. Indeed, he moved too swift for them to hinder him; when she blinked, he had gone through the Black Gate, and was a mere speck on the horizon.

Gúthwyn dug a dirty fist into her eyes and wiped away the tears before turning to face Dîrbenn. He was very silent for a time, until at last he said, "I did not think you would return."

Heaving a long sigh, she replied, "I will not be here long." She could not even muster up the energy to apologize to him. What did it matter, anyway? What would it achieve?

A thin, wailing cry was lifted into the air. Gúthwyn trembled, knowing that her doom was inescapable. Dîrbenn started, and went to move closer to her.

"Dîrbenn, go," she told him, her mouth drier than a desert. "Do not let them catch you with me."

He nodded, looking as if he wished to say something to her but was unable to find the words.

"Thank you so much for watching the children," Gúthwyn said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I am forever in your debt."

The cry sounded again, this time louder than ever. She cringed. "Please, Dîrbenn, go!"

"Gúthwyn, I—"

"Go!"

Now he obeyed her. Their eyes met briefly before he turned around, and she repressed a sob as she watched what would probably be the last human she ever saw walk away from her. The shrieking repeated, nearing her all the while. She realized that she was quivering unstoppably in terror. Each noise the Nazgûl's steed uttered made the hairs on her body stand upright.

She saw it after only a few seconds had passed, at first a small dot in the sky and then growing larger. All the while it continued its screaming, until she had clamped her hands over her ears in silent agony. Gradually, she could see the gaping mouth of the beast; for a horrified moment, she thought it was going to swallow her whole. The Nazgûl on its back certainly appeared as if he would not hesitate to give such an order.

Against her will, she found herself transfixed by the gaze of the Black Rider, and could not even move as the beast landed less than a yard away from her. It ignored Dîrbenn, who was hurrying away as swiftly as his legs might carry him. A whimper escaped her mouth, yet her feet refused to cooperate with her body's demands. The winged creature observed her as if it were debating whether to feast on her flesh for its next meal; yet it was the Nazgûl whom her terror was fixated on.

The chilling sound of iron boots falling upon the ground echoed in the numbness that was her mind. The Nazgûl dismounted from his steed, walking slowly towards her, its black robe billowing sinisterly. She was powerless to run away, and it would have been folly to try. Her hands shook so violently that they banged uncontrollably against her sides.

Not a word did the Black Rider speak to her, but he did not need to. A hand, covered in a metal gauntlet, reached out and closed around her neck. It lifted her up effortlessly, and as it did she felt its foul breath upon her face.

Such a wave of despair came over her then that she swooned. Her last thoughts were of Éomer and Éowyn's faces, swimming before her and hissing the very words from her nightmares. _You have failed… you are worthless… you belong to Him now…_

Gúthwyn fainted, and her spirit fled from her body to wander along the plains of Rohan.


	17. Loss

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventeen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book. In addition, I recognize that some of the upcoming events will, to many, seem far-fetched. So it may be, but do recall that lots of strange things happen in Middle-earth. (Not to mention the fact that I came up with it in sixth grade, so cut me some slack, lol.) Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Seventeen**

In the Houses of Healing, a lone man sat beside the bed of another. His head was bowed, resting on his hands. Weariness and grief were upon him, though he had not succumbed to the lulling whispers of sleep, nor the insistence of his friends that he retire to his tent. Éomer son of Éomund was he, less than a day ago made the king of Rohan; his sister Éowyn was whom he held vigil over.

A long sigh escaped him. The night had seemed to last even longer than the battle of the Pelennor Fields had. He was tormented by memories of him finding Éowyn where she lay beside their uncle, still as if dead. Yet she had lived, while the good old king had perished beneath his horse—unwillingly the bane of his master.

The two members of the royal family had been born into the city upon golden biers, Éowyn in no less honor than Théoden. Indeed, she had slain the Witch-king, a feat none had thought possible. But she had paid a heavy price for it: Long had the shadow of the Black Breath, a cloud of hopelessness and despair that fell on those who neared the Nazgûl, lain over her. That was Éomer's darkest hour: To think that his strong-willed sister might not survive.

He had feared for her life, and stayed with her as she was brought into the Houses of Healing. Pale as the _simbelmynë_ she had been, one of her arms broken and the other lying lifeless across her chest. It came to him then how helpless she was, how helpless even in Meduseld she had been. Doomed to wait upon the ailing king, and always walking with the footsteps of Gríma echoing behind her, she had no means of escape… except for this.

Aragorn had arrived in the midst of his dark thoughts, accompanied by the wizard Gandalf, and sought to heal the White Lady of her hurts. Yet even then he had cautioned Éomer that he had not the power to repair her spirit, for she had been matched against the leader of the Black Riders, who had might far greater than hers. Long had Aragorn tended to Éowyn, countless nerve-wracking minutes that had gone by with the speed of a snail.

Hope renewed had burst within him when she began breathing deeply, the clean linen sheets rising and falling gently. And then, when he had called her, she had awoken for a brief time. Mighty were the skills of Lord Aragorn, in healing not the least. Éowyn had seemed unhurt, though tired, while they had conversed. A small smile came to his face, however, for she had also spoken of more deeds yet to fulfill.

He watched her now, sleeping peacefully, and felt a sense of calmness coming over him. She was beautiful in her rest; part of him wished she would remain that way, content to stay in bed and regain her strength. Yet he knew she would not agree to do so. She would desire to rise and walk, even if the effort exhausted her. His sister had never wanted to betray her weaknesses, and it seemed to him that she was frailer than she realized.

But at the moment, he was merely glad that she was alive and well, if a little worn from her travels. He marveled that she had gone to such lengths to fight, disguising herself as a man and riding—maybe in his own _éored_—to war with the other soldiers. She had even brought the Hobbit Merry with her; he, too, was lying in the Houses of Healing, having been touched by the Black Breath as well.

One more consolation did he have: That Gúthwyn was safe from harm. When Éowyn had been discovered, the terrifying notion that Éomund's youngest daughter had followed her sister into battle had overwhelmed him. He had been severely tempted to go searching for her immediately, but that would have meant abandoning Éowyn, and he could not bring himself to do that.

Now, he no longer believed that Gúthwyn had concealed herself, for no news had come to him of her, nor had she sought him out. He was relieved at this. Éowyn would recover from the Witch-king's assault, as even in her fragility she had a courageous spirit equaled by few others. Gúthwyn, on the other hand…

He sighed. It was difficult for him to articulate, even to himself, his thoughts about her. Until the night of the party in Edoras, he had mistakenly assumed her to not be much affected by what had happened to her in Isengard and Mordor. She had been afraid, of course, of the darkness and the Wargs, but that was only to be expected. And other than that incident on the way to the Nan Curunír, she had seemed perfectly fine. Indeed, he would have been hard-pressed to name a happier person.

At the feast, she had certainly been in high spirits. He had seen her on a number of occasions, each time with a wide grin across her face and often with laughter pouring out of her mouth. She clearly loved being with her people; it was a love that went not unrequited. Indeed, he thought, some returned it overmuch—Tun, specifically. Though Éomer had to admit that the ale had been plentiful at the party, he would not soon forget the sight of the guard pulling his sister onto his lap like she was a common tavern wench. But even then, Gúthwyn had seemed all right, giggling at Tun's actions and teasing him about how much he mead he had consumed. She had looked a little uncomfortable at his attentions; yet again, that was not strange.

However, that night she had proved him terribly wrong. He remembered getting out of his bed to retrieve some water, and turning around to see a ghost of a figure stumbling pitifully across the throne room. He had hurried after Gúthwyn, and seen for himself the terror in her eyes that made her shake uncontrollably. It was enough to frighten _him_.

His blood boiled as he recalled her story. Had that Elf still lived, he would have found him and destroyed him mercilessly for all that he had done to Gúthwyn. It was sickening, the way Haldor sought to humiliate her, how he had blackmailed and threatened and manipulated her to get what he wanted. No, more than sickening. Words could not even begin to describe his rage and disgust.

What was truly heart wrenching, however, was that she thought it was her fault; as if she could have prevented the Elf from abusing her, that if only she had not loved him things would have been different. He had nearly vomited to hear her calling herself a whore, even more so when she told him she had believed that he would turn her away. The extent to which Haldor had damaged her mind was astounding.

Once he had learned all this, he began noticing things that had at first escaped his attention. The way the slightest thing set her on edge. The way she constantly put her hands on her stomach as if nauseous. The way her eyes contracted in nervousness if someone stood too near to her. The way her face turned pale whenever he questioned her about Haldor.

A faint moan sounded in his ears then, and he looked over to see Éowyn stirring. Hastily, he moved his chair closer to her bed. She blinked rapidly, and gradually her eyes focused on him. "Brother," she murmured, a faint smile coming across her face. "I thought you had gone to get some rest."

"I am fine," he replied. "How are you feeling?"

She struggled to sit up, yet when he would have helped her she shook her head. At last she managed to do it herself, and answered, "I am well, though my arm pains me." She glanced forlornly down at the cloth sling. "This will be the bane of my existence," she muttered. "I suppose I am not allowed to get out of bed?"

Éomer chuckled. "No, Éowyn, you are not," he said. "Not until the Warden of these Houses deems you fit enough."

She heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Then what am I to do with my time? This window looks southward, to the sea, but I heed not the call of the gulls."

"And yet the sea is a better sight than the mountains," Éomer responded, "especially when they are draped in shadow."

Éowyn looked at him then, a frustrated expression on her face as if he had not understood her lament. "Now, brother," she said, changing the subject, "tell me what has become of Gúthwyn, for you have spoken naught of her."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "She is at home," he answered cautiously, "leading the people in your stead."

All the blood drained from Éowyn's face, and the sight of it made his heart turn cold. "You have not seen her?" she gasped, sitting up straighter.

"What do you mean?" Éomer demanded, his entire body taut with anxiety.

Éowyn trembled slightly. "She rode to battle with me," she whispered, her eyes darting about the room as if she were searching for their younger sibling. "I thought you had found her!"

Éomer leaped to his feet, a sudden terror that Gúthwyn had perished racing through his veins. He would never forgive himself if he had. What had he been thinking, to assume that she had been complacent enough to remain at home while her brother and sister rode to brave deeds on the battlefield?

"Please, Éomer, send word to me when you are assured of her safety," Éowyn said, her eyes wide with worry.

"I will," he promised, and then turned on his heel and sped out of the room. He strode so swiftly down the hall that he crashed into one of the women healers, and wasted valuable time apologizing to her and helping to gather some of her fallen herbs. When he was done, he all but ran from the Houses of Healing. Many stared at him as he went past, but he cared not.

Outside, the Warden was there, speaking with Aragorn. Éomer hastened over to the two of them.

"Tell me," he said as they glanced at him, "have you seen my sister?"

The Warden looked puzzled. "Were you not just by her side?"

Éomer shook his head impatiently. "My other sister, Gúthwyn," he explained, and Aragorn stiffened.

"She went into battle as well?" the Ranger asked swiftly. The Warden appeared astonished.

"I just learned of this from Éowyn," Éomer said, a cold chill sweeping over him. "She—"

At that moment, a young boy skidded to a halt before them. He looked familiar; then Éomer realized that he had been in charge of feeding the horses in the stables.

"Do you know where Mithrandir is?" the boy panted, bending over slightly and clutching at a stitch in his side.

"I believe he is on the battlements," Aragorn answered, looking curiously at the boy. "Is something amiss?"

The boy's face flushed. "Shadowfax is not in his stall, and I was wondering—"

Éomer left them then, impatient to find Gúthwyn. _Where would I go, if I were her?_ he asked himself. Yet he could not answer the question, and was forced to admit that he knew very little of his sister's mood. _I shall search the entire city, then._

He started working his way through the streets, asking every soldier he happened upon if they had seen his sister. None of them had. The knot in his stomach grew, and whenever he turned away from a warrior it merely intensified. He prayed that he would not have to search the Pelennor Fields, where only bodies remained. If he did, and she was found…

His throat was dry by the time he reached the fifth level.

* * *

Legolas sighed, leaning against a wall and stretching out his legs. The sun was bright in the aftermath of the battle, and he was taking a few rare moments to relax. Twinges of sadness still assailed him when he heard a cry of grief rising from the women or children; it pained him to know that so many had perished. The battle had been far more costly than Helm's Deep, though in some ways it was to a smaller effect.

Yet not in all. He frowned as he thought of the fall of Théoden, killed in the height of his glory by his own horse. Théoden had been a kind man, and though he had spent much of the last years of his life an invalid, he would be reckoned among the greater of his sires for his deeds two days ago. Éomer, he did not doubt, would succeed him well—assuming he was even able to return to Rohan.

More dark thoughts swirled around Legolas. The forces they had faced at the battle were far more numerous than anything Middle-earth had seen since the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. It was not just the Orcs who had flocked to join Sauron's legions; the Haradrim, Easterlings, and the Corsairs of Umbar had all been in the service of the Dark Lord. Yet it would be foolish to think that all of his army had been emptied in the assault upon Minas Tirith.

He did not know what would be done about Mordor. At some point or another, their doom would have to be decided—but without the destruction of the Ring, there could be no hope of victory. They had heard nothing of Frodo and Sam since their separation at the Parth Galen, though if Sauron had recovered the Ring they would have known about it long ago.

"Legolas?"

Glancing up, Legolas saw Éomer approaching him. The man looked harried. "Yes?"

"Have you seen Gúthwyn?"

For a moment, Legolas stared at him, wondering if he had named the wrong woman. Éowyn had been discovered on the battlefield, lying in a swoon beside her uncle. She had slain the Witch-king of Angmar, thus making the ancient words of Glorfindel true: "Not by the hand of men will he fall."

"Do you mean Éowyn, my lord?" he asked at last, standing up and glancing at Éomer quizzically.

"No," Éomer replied shortly, his fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes were frantic. "I was with her in the Houses of Healing, and she told me that Gúthwyn had ridden out to war as well. Yet I have not seen her since the battle ended. Have you?"

Worry swept over Legolas. He should have known—especially after Helm's Deep—that Gúthwyn was willing to do anything to fight for her people. If something had happened to her… "No, I have not," he said abruptly. "Though I will help you look."

"Many thanks," Éomer muttered wearily, wiping his brow. Up close, Legolas saw that the king was absolutely exhausted. He doubted that the man had gotten any sleep last night.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked as they started moving down the streets. All the while, he kept an eye out for any small, thin men.

In response, Éomer groaned. "I do not know when I have been worse," he ground out, and did not elaborate. Legolas did not press him any further, keenly aware of what it felt like to lose someone you loved. His own mother had departed over the Sea hundreds of years ago, unable to bear the shadow that had fallen over Mirkwood. Thranduil had not taken another wife since then.

They came to the battlements, where several men were repairing the damage that had been done by the devices of the Enemy. Éomer went to question them about Gúthwyn, yet Legolas found his attention diverted by the sight of the countless corpses that still littered the Pelennor Fields. He found himself searching them for a Rohan soldier with dark hair. All the while, he sincerely hoped that none of the bodies belonged to Gúthwyn. Her family had already seen enough heartbreak.

At last, unable to look at the carnage any longer, he turned away. It was then that he saw Gandalf striding past him, carrying a several items in his hands. The wizard appeared to take no notice of him, but Legolas saw that which he held: A sword and a pack, looking suspiciously like Gúthwyn's. A cold feeling wrapped itself around his heart.

He hurried after Gandalf, joining him as he stood before Éomer.

"Gandalf," Éomer said, not seeming to be aware of the objects. "Have you seen Gúthwyn? She—"

Gandalf handed him the pack and sword.

Éomer's eyes widened in horror as he held the blade first, withdrawing it from its sheathe. The metal was stained with black blood. Tenderly he replaced it, and took the pack. Legolas' breath caught in his throat as he held up a familiar necklace.

"Dead?" Éomer choked, his body utterly still.

"These were found in Shadowfax's empty stall," Gandalf told him solemnly. His face seemed even more lined with burdens than it had been the last time Legolas had seen him. "He is not in the city—she convinced him to bear her, somehow, and they have both disappeared."

Éomer looked aghast. "How is that possible?" he demanded. "None other than you have been able to ride him!"

Unexpectedly, Legolas recalled the time he had seen Gúthwyn in the stables at Edoras, standing in Shadowfax's stall and stroking the proud horse's mane. "It is not the first time she has encountered him," he said. Gandalf glanced at him keenly, though did not say anything.

Éomer stared back and forth between the two of them, utterly nonplussed. "Then where has she gone?" he asked in bewilderment. "And why would she leave her things?"

"Mithrandir!" someone yelled, and all three of them turned around to see one of the soldiers pointing across the Pelennor Fields. "It is your horse, my lord!"

They rushed to the battlements and gazed out. Far, far away, nearly a league, a white speck gleamed against the shadow of the East. Even Legolas' keen eyes were barely able to see Shadowfax, so swiftly was the horse galloping. He appeared only as a blur, speeding towards them without the tiniest pause in his stride. Several men had gathered to watch him, murmuring to each other in amazement.

And then Legolas felt a wave of shock and horror sweep through his entire body. Shadowfax had gotten close enough for him to see that it was not Gúthwyn who rode him. Instead, two children were clinging desperately to the horse, their faces screwed up against the wind. A sudden, sinking realization came over him.

"It is a boy and a girl," he said to Éomer, and watched as the man blanched with the same terrifying understanding.

"By the Valar…" Éomer murmured. The next instant, he had leaped off of the battlements, and was sprinting down the street. Legolas and Gandalf hurried after him. No one shouted for the gates to be opened, because there were no gates to be opened: They had been torn apart by Grond, a contraption of the Enemy.

The race down to the lowest level seemed to take eternity to complete. Legolas found that he was cold with dread, in his heart fearing what had come to pass. When they at last, finally, arrived at the gates, a crowd of curious Gondorians had clustered before them.

"Make way!" Gandalf called as Éomer neared them. Hastily the people obeyed, clearing a path so that the new king of Rohan could go through. Legolas and the wizard went after him; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn and Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth, appearing from one of the higher levels.

It was then that Shadowfax rode in, tossing his proud head and rearing at the sight of Gandalf. The girl shrieked in terror, and the boy held her tightly to his chest. Haiweth was the one, only five years old, and Hammel was the other, who had seen eight winters. Gúthwyn had told them this at Edoras—not for an instant did Legolas doubt that it was they.

Shadowfax lowered his hooves to the ground, and allowed the children to slide off of him. The girl nearly fell over, but her brother steadied her. The two of them stared at the mass of people, gaping in open awe at the both the Gondorians and their city, their amazed looks not unreturned. Then Haiweth quailed as Éomer approached them, turning away and burying her face in Hammel's stomach.

Everyone in the plaza was silent. Legolas drew nearer, anxious to hear what had befallen Gúthwyn. Aragorn and the prince joined him.

"We seek a man named Éomer, my lord," Hammel said quietly, trembling the tiniest bit under Éomer's gaze. His hands, gripping the girl's shoulders, were white.

"I am he," Éomer replied, his breathing uneven. "Hammel and Haiweth, correct?"

Hammel looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Yes, sir."

Haiweth had glanced up at the sound of her name, and looked at Éomer suspiciously. "How does he know who we are?" she asked her brother in confusion, not troubling to lower her voice.

"I am Gúthwyn's brother," Éomer explained impatiently. "Where is she?"

The boy's dark, unhappy eyes fixed on the king of Rohan. "My lord, she…"

"She what?" Éomer demanded.

But Hammel's gaze was no longer concentrated on him. Instead, Legolas found himself staring directly into the child's eyes. His heart dropped like a stone as he saw a look of mingled fury and terror flash across his face, emotions strikingly sharp for an eight-year-old. So often had he seen this on Gúthwyn's face… Now, more than ever, he felt the burden of sharing his appearance with Haldor.

Haiweth saw him then, as well, and whimpered. Swiftly, Hammel wrapped his arms around her, holding her protectively to him.

"Hammel," Éomer said urgently, not noticing the silent exchange. "_Where is Gúthwyn?_"

The boy tore his eyes away from Legolas, though the frame of his body was taut. "She wanted me to tell you something," he said.

"What is it?" Éomer asked, his face paling rapidly.

"That she loves you and the rest of her family, sir, and is sorry for causing you so much grief."

The words slammed into Legolas' chest with the force of the battering ram that had broken down the gates of Minas Tirith. He now knew what it was that Gúthwyn had done, the final sacrifice she had made. She had exchanged herself for the children.

It was heart wrenching now to watch Éomer knit his brows. "Tell me where she is," he growled, his voice hard as the lump that one could see forming in his throat. "_Where is she?_"

"My lord, she…" Hammel struggled with the sentence, furiously wiping something from his eyes. The entire crowd was silent, hanging onto his every word. "She stayed behind, sir."

Éomer staggered back, looking wildly to the east. "No," he breathed, his chest unevenly rising and falling. "No!"

No one could speak as the king of Rohan sunk to his knees. His howls of grief, of hope shredded beyond repair, of loss so great that few had seen its like before, echoed throughout the plaza, striking the hearts of all who heard and saw him. Legolas found that he could hardly breathe. In his mind, horrible images of a ragged corpse, skin stretched over the decaying bones, its dark hair matted and tangled, drew such despair over him that he bowed his head.

The sun blazed overhead, illuminating the tears shed in that hour by Éomer Éadig; yet more would come when he told the lady Éowyn of their sister's fate. For to lose one whom has but barely been recovered, and who is like a child in their alternating stubbornness and frailty and unmatched joy, is perhaps one of the greatest tragedies a family can bear.


	18. Khamûl

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. In addition, I recognize that some of the upcoming events will, to many, seem far-fetched. So it may be, but do recall that lots of strange things happen in Middle-earth. (Not to mention the fact that I came up with it in sixth grade, so cut me some slack, lol.) Regarding the names of the Nazgûl, Khamûl is the only confirmed one—see _Unfinished Tales._ The other names are from a role-playing game, but since they are in Númenórean form, I have decided to use them. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Eighteen**

It was the twenty-fifth of March. Within the Black Gate of Mordor, all was silent, hovering on the brink of a precipice like a diver on the edge of a cliff. The forces of the Dark Lord lay in wait; scouts had reported that an army of men was making its way to the Black Land. All the preparations had been made, all of the troops assembled. Mordor was still, and Sauron brooded quietly on his throne, his mind turning uneasily over the appearance of a Ranger from the north.

In the dead of night, so late that it was nearly morning, a shadow swept over the sky and landed softly on the barren ground before the Morannon. The Nazgûl's iron boots clanked together as he dismounted his steed; a dark cloak, covering a shapeless existence, rippled against the metal. Khamûl his name was, and all who saw him pass quailed with fear, for anger radiated from him like poisonous fumes from a furnace.

His Master was most displeased with the way the war was turning out. On the same day that his triumph in Gondor had been thwarted, the Elven king Thranduil in the north had held back the forces of Dol Guldur. Yet more of the Dark Lord's armies had attacked the Elves, this time in Lothlórien—again, victory had evaded their grasp. Khamûl seethed in anger, flexing his gauntlets.

In addition, just a week ago news had been sent to the Tower of the appearance of a human: The very woman that his master had employed as an experiment, in hopes of increasing his army by including the lesser gender. He snorted in contempt, stalking towards the Black Gate. Women! They were nothing but trouble. This one had been sent to find the Ring; she had failed, utterly, yet had the nerve to show her face in Mordor.

As he drew nearer to the Morannon, one of the irksome Orcs came bobbing over to him, shrinking away in terror even as he bowed. For a brief second, Khamûl contemplated killing him for the sport, but he had better things to do with his time, and his master's commands to obey. Ignoring the Orc's greeting, he growled, "Where is she?"

"I-In the Fang-fort, just as the orders from Lugbúrz said," the Orc replied nervously, referring in his native speech to what the Elves called Barad-dûr.

Khamûl regarded him with contempt. "Tell the Lieutenant that the Dark Lord wants the armies arranged before the Black Gate within the hour," he snarled, relaying his other message. "The men have been seen only a few leagues away."

The Orc bowed, though the Nazgûl had one last thing to say. "If I find out you have disobeyed me, you will be taken to Lugbúrz to suffer my master's displeasure!"

Once more, the Orc bowed, this time hastily and unsteadily. He hurried away, and for a few seconds Khamûl watched him, his invisible eyes flaring with disgust. At last satisfied that his instructions would be followed, he muttered a curse and turned towards Narchost, one of the Towers of the Teeth. His lip curled into a sneer as he drew closer to it. The foolish Gondorians had built it in the days of their power, such as they called it, yet long ago had abandoned it. Now it was used for his master's purposes.

He passed into Narchost, listening to the sound of his boots falling with a harsh noise upon the stone. Orcs stepped aside to let him by, each bowing frantically. He ignored them, and soon came to a flight of stairs. These curved down into the earth; no torch lit the dank walls, for the dungeons were here. Prisoners were kept in this place until transportation to the Dark Tower could be arranged.

Though the blackness was so complete that light itself was choked and unable to survive, Khamûl thrived on this existence. He could see every rat-infested corner, every slimy stone, every bone littering the floor, every fly buzzing around the corpses. A cold chill had fallen about the room in his presence, making him smile in something akin to pleasure. Yet not truly pleasure, for it had been so long since he had experienced the sensation… He did not know what it felt like.

The woman was in a small cell, her hands fixed to the wall with rusting chains. One of the other Nazgûl had brought her here seven days ago. Since then, she had been given some food and drink, enough to keep her alive, but in such small portions that she was too weak to struggle. Indeed, she barely seemed to know where she was, and had not even noticed his presence.

Khamûl paused for a moment to recall his orders from Sauron. She was to be taken to the Dark Tower before the day's end—and she had to arrive in one piece, unspoiled and unharmed. The men had been strictly forbidden against laying their hands on her, with the threat of death if they disobeyed. So far, they had all complied. The woman was not nearly tempting enough: Each of her bones jutted out, straining against the skin; her frail body was hardly larger than a child's, and huddled pathetically in a small heap.

He snorted derisively, and at the sound the woman stirred with a faint moan. Her eyes did not fix on him, but she knew that he was there, and trembled in fear. Khamûl strode over to her, kicking open the door of her cell. It banged against the walls, making a loud clashing noise that caused her to cringe. Yet even then, she was not aware of what was happening: And so locks were not used on these dungeons, when the captives were prisoners of their own minds.

Withdrawing a key from the folds of his robes, he used it to undo the chains binding her to the wall. His cold gauntlet brushed her cheek as he did so, and she shivered. A low groan escaped her shriveled lips. "Borogor…" she whispered.

Khamûl paused before releasing the last chain. That name sounded familiar. One of the commanding officers, perhaps? It was not Orkish. _No matter,_ he thought to himself, and let the shackles fall to the ground. The woman muttered some more, though it was no longer in the Common Tongue. This irritated him, and he was rougher than he would have been as he pulled her up by her throat.

The next moment he growled, for she wavered and became limp in his grasp. When he looked at her eyes, they were glazed over. How pathetically weak these humans were. The cold ring around his finger might have burned at times, but it made him inconceivably powerful… able to endure for years that which others could not bear for seconds. Unparalleled torment, the slow, everlasting decay of body and mind—all this Khamûl suffered, and far more.

Yet not for long. As he carried the woman out of the dungeons, a sense of excitement came over him. Soon the Dark Lord would triumph over the pitiful Free Peoples, and enslave them all. Revenge would be taken upon the Gondorians who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar. The Elves would be killed, all of them. And as a faithful servant to his master, Khamûl knew that he could expect a fine reward for his patience.

He ascended the stairs, and right away noticed that something was wrong. The activity in Narchost had increased tenfold since he had gone down into the dungeons. Everywhere he looked, Orcs were scrambling around the tower, donning armor and sharpening their swords. Their movements were frantic, and the higher-ranked ones were barking out fierce orders to the others. Numerous squabbles had already unraveled.

Without bothering to ask them what was happening, he swept out of Narchost and saw all of Sauron's army spread out before him. Countless thousands of men and Orcs stretched as far back as the eye could see. The remaining seven Nazgûl were standing at the head of this formidable force, awaiting his instruction. One of them swept over to him. "They have arrived," Akhorahil hissed, flexing his grip on his sword.

The news both surprised and worried Khamûl. He himself had given the orders to assemble the Dark Lord's army, though he had assumed that they had an hour or two until the Gondorians arrived—after an ambush had been sent to make trial of their strength, he had thought that their going would be slowed with caution. Yet apparently it was not so.

He gave a snarl of displeasure. Now he could not return to the Tower and toss the woman into the dungeons. There was simply not enough time for such a trip.

It was then that a voice rose into the air, drowning out even the Orcs as they jostled against each other in the lines. Khamûl stiffened as a man called from beyond the Black Gate, "Let the lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!"

"Isildur's heir," Khamûl growled, knowing without a doubt that this was the insolent Ranger his master had dwelled on for months uncounted.

"Gandalf the Grey is also with them," someone snickered, and Khamûl smiled coldly when he saw the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr approach him on horseback. The creature was Sauron's ambassador, and indeed the most remarkable feature about him was his mouth—cracked and bleeding, with yellowed teeth that gnashed unpleasantly on every word spoken, it had intimidated many with just its appearance.

The Lieutenant shifted, and Khamûl saw that in his hands he held two items: A shirt of fine, glittering material, and the cloak that had been taken from the woman. "The Halfling's," the Lieutenant grinned, lifting the shirt. "Perhaps they will be willing to parlay for him."

Ah, the Halfling. It had been captured in the pass of Cirith Ungol, where the giant spider Shelob dwelt. None knew what it had been doing there, nor why: Nothing of value had been found on him, other than the shirt. More troubling was the fact that he had gotten so far into the Black Land without being spotted. He was currently being held in the tower guarding Cirith Ungol, awaiting interrogation.

Khamûl did not know how terribly wrong he was. So he merely nodded his head at the Lieutenant, and raised his hand at the sentinels on the Gates, giving the signal for them to be opened.

"And what of the woman?" the Lieutenant asked, gesturing towards the limp form in Khamûl's arms. "Shall we show her to them, as well?"

"She is of no importance to them," Khamûl replied, his voice a low hiss. "I doubt that any of them would recognize her. Remember, she was their enemy."

The Lieutenant inclined his head, and then turned away. The Black Gate were opening as they spoke, though only a small crack had yet revealed itself in the cold mass of iron. Khamûl smiled very faintly, and slipped from the view of the Gondorians. It would not do to reveal himself before his entrance into the battle. The other Nazgûl hid themselves likewise, standing close beside their steeds in preparation for the fight.

"What are your plans regarding the woman?" Akhorahil asked him, glancing disdainfully at her.

Khamûl sighed in annoyance. "These prisoners are far more trouble than they are worth," he snarled, and looked at Narchost. He had been planning on placing the woman back inside, yet a strange foreboding feeling had swelled up within him. It was only for the briefest instant, and perhaps a mere echo of his former self, but he was suddenly unsure of whether that would be the best idea.

Akhorahil seemed to sense his doubt. "Then have your steed carry her into battle like a prized trophy. Nothing strikes the heart of men more than seeing a woman in peril—and they will not dare shoot at you, for fear of harming her."

"Do you not think that they will be more concerned about the Orcs than the skies?" Khamûl asked, though even as he said this his mind was mulling over the idea. Akhorahil had a fair point: It would terrify the men to see such a sight, to see what cruelty the Dark Lord treated his prisoners with. And it was true that they would think twice before releasing their arrows at his mount—yet another weakness of their kind.

How he enjoyed profiting from their flaws.

* * *

It was the early morning of March twenty-fifth when Aragorn, now called Elessar, and his men arrayed themselves before the Black Gate of Mordor. Gondorians and Rohirrim alike stood together, mingled with each other in the last offense of the Free Peoples. Swords shook with nervousness; tongues wet lips with anxiety. No one expected to survive. No one expected the battle to last more than an hour. 

Legolas reined Arod in for a brief moment, causing Gimli to tighten his grip around his waist. He scanned the Mountains of Shadow, wondering where Frodo and Sam were, or if they were even still alive. It was for the Halflings that they now made this hopeless assault upon Mordor, seeking to divert Sauron's attention from what was happening in his own land. In this last, desperate attempt, they sought to give Frodo the time he needed to destroy the Ring.

Just then, Aragorn nudged his horse forward, heading towards the Morannon to declare his challenge. A standard-bearer followed him, holding the flag of Gondor. The White Tree rippled in the wind. Gandalf and Pippin went after them; Éomer and Legolas brought up the rear. The Captains of the West had gone forth to war, and would probably never return to their lands again.

Legolas' eyes swept over Éomer's form, stiff and bowed against the fate that had been handed to him. He was the king of Rohan, but his people would soon likely perish or be enslaved, should Frodo not reach Mount Doom in time. His uncle was dead, and the White Lady lay on a bed in the Houses of Healing, struggling to recover from the shadow that covered her. And Gúthwyn…

He felt a surge of pity for her. To hand oneself over to the Dark Lord, all for the sake of two children, was something even the bravest man would have debated long about before doing. It pained his heart to think of her perishing in a windowless dungeon—she was terrified of the dark—far away from the friends and family that she so loved. Such a grim, horrible end he could barely begin to imagine.

Hammel and Haiweth had been left in Gondor, under the care of the Warden of the Houses of Healing. The Lady Éowyn remained there as well, along with Faramir, the son of the Steward Denethor. Denethor no longer lived: In a fit of madness, he had tried to burn himself on a pyre. When Gandalf had foiled his plans, he had leapt off the top level of Minas Tirith, falling to his death on the Pelennor Fields. They had recovered what was left of his body shortly before their departure.

And now they were here in Mordor, the dominion of Sauron. As they came to a halt before the Black Gate, Legolas sighed heavily. He could not help but picture Gúthwyn in his mind, and wondered where they had taken her. A chill ran up and down his body as he envisioned multiple scenarios, each one a thousand times worse than the last. Yet as bad as his thoughts were, he did not doubt that the horror was increased tenfold in Éomer's mind.

Once again, he sighed, and turned his attentions to Aragorn, now known as Elessar by his people. He truly looked the part of a king. His Ranger garb was hidden beneath a full skirt of mail, underlying a robe of black leather. On this was embroidered the emblem of Gondor: the White Tree of renowned fame, set below seven silver stars. His black cloak billowed behind him, fastened to his shoulders with two silver and gold brooches. He had not been declared king, and nor would he unless by some miracle Frodo managed to fulfill his quest in time, but the Gondorians were delighted to accept him.

At the moment, Aragorn was gazing thoughtfully up at the Morannon. It thoroughly dwarfed him in height, yet he was not intimidated. "Let the lord of the Black Land come forth!" he called, his voice echoing over the silent grounds. "Let justice be done upon him!"

For a long time, all was quiet. Éomer glanced uneasily around them, his eyes narrowed and his mouth frowning over the scene. Legolas gave him a small, sympathetic smile before looking back at the Gates. A great rumbling noise had begun within them. Slowly but surely, a crack appeared in the cold iron, growing larger by the second. He held the reins of Arod tighter, should the horse take fright and try to shy away.

Soon, the Gates were opened enough so that a man might ride through. And one did: A messenger of Sauron, garbed in black, guided his steed out of a swirling cloud of dust towards them. Over his shoulder, Legolas saw with a sinking heart a solid wall of Orcs, awaiting a command to attack. Even his Elven eyes could not determine an end to their lines.

The creature—for it could surely not be a human, with all but its pale chin and mouth foul beyond description covered by a steel helmet—approached them on an ironclad horse. The beast itself seemed evil: Its eyes were flaming red, glaring at them all from its sockets, and it grunted menacingly as it drew closer to them.

"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome," the creature said, flecks of spit and what looked suspiciously like blood flying from its mouth. Legolas saw Pippin recoil in disgust as it bared its yellowed teeth in a grin at them.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows, but did not say anything. Neither did the others. Legolas watched as the messenger's mouth turned towards each of them, then hissed in amusement. "Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

At last, Gandalf spoke. "We do not come to treat with Sauron," he replied calmly, and the creature's head twisted to look at him; "faithless and accursed." Fetid teeth gnashed together in disapproval. "Tell your master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.

A snort of derision escaped the messenger, just as they had all expected. "Old Greybeard," he sneered, and what must have been a smile passed over his face. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."

To the horror of all who had been in the Company, he withdrew from a pocket of his robes two articles of clothing: A tattered black cloak, and a shirt of mithril. Legolas' heart froze as he looked upon Frodo's garments. A terror seized him in a relentless grip, so that for a moment he could barely breathe. The Halfling had been captured. All was lost.

A laugh sounded in the air, and the clothes were thrown at Gandalf. The wizard caught them, turning them over in his hands.

"Frodo!" Pippin cried in despair, his face twisting in grief. For the first time, the messenger noticed him.

"Silence!" Gandalf barked.

"No!" Merry exclaimed in dismay. Behind him, Éomer was staring in shock at the clothing.

"Silence!" Gandalf ordered again, as the messenger's head swiveled around to look at the Hobbit.

Cold laughter met their ears. "The Halfling was dear to thee, I see," the creature said, smirking. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host."

Behind Legolas, Gimli grumbled in pure hatred. Legolas felt the bile rising in his throat.

"Who would have thought," the messenger mused, "that one so small could endure so much pain?"

It was too much for Pippin. Silent tears began forming in his eyes. The creature's mouth focused on him for the briefest instant before saying, "And he did, Gandalf. He did."

Gandalf did not say anything, and it came to Legolas then that something was wrong with this. Had the Ring been reclaimed, Sauron's darkness would have spread over the lands already. They would have known immediately; all would have felt the change. Yet there was nothing in the air to hint at it…

It was then that Éomer said, unexpectedly, "That cloak. It is too large for a Hobbit."

Legolas looked to where the king of Rohan's wide eyes were. In his hands, Gandalf still held the other garment—the long black cloak that was, indeed, bigger than it should have been. For a moment he puzzled over it, for it was familiar.

"Ah," the messenger breathed. "My mistake. That belongs to a slave who… failed to complete her task."

His words slammed into Legolas' gut. All of the color left his face; Éomer's was a mirror of his own.

"What did you do to her?" Éomer growled in a choked voice, nudging Firefoot forward.

For a second, the creature was taken aback by the ferocity with which he was addressed. Then he recovered swiftly. "She will be punished, of course," he replied silkily. "In the same manner of the Halfling, though worse—far worse. The Dark Lord does not appreciate disobedience. If there is any of her left when he is done, I expect she shall be thrown to the men, so they might do with her what they will."

Éomer froze, his face horrified. He looked sick. Legolas felt a wave of revulsion sweep over him, and prayed that Gúthwyn would mercifully perish before such a fate befell her.

"Why?" the messenger asked in delight, sensing weakness. "Do you know this woman? Was she your lover, perhaps? Your wife? Your favorite tavern whore?"

With a hideous snarl, Éomer spat, "How dare you? She was my—"

"Éomer!" Aragorn said warningly, his voice covering the word "sister." Before anyone could say anything, he moved his horse forward, a fire smoldering in his eyes.

"And who is this?" the creature inquired, giving the Ranger a disdainful glance. "Isildur's heir?"

Aragorn did not respond to his mocking words, and merely drew closer to the messenger.

"It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade," Sauron's servant snorted. It was the last thing he spoke.

With a terrible roar, Aragorn drew Andúril from its sheathe and delivered a sweeping strike to the messenger's head. It separated from his body, spiraling harmlessly towards the ground; the mouth stoppered in its insolence.

"I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli sighed. Legolas did not have the heart to answer him.

Aragorn wheeled his horse around. "I do not believe it," he said, his eyes ablaze with the ruinous fire. "I will not!"

A lurching creaking noise above them sounded, and they all looked to see the Gates opening further. This time, row upon row of Orcs was revealed to be marching towards them. Legolas' gaze clouded at the sight, and his mouth thinned. With only two hundred men at his command, Aragorn was outnumbered at least ten to one. As the Morannon spread its cold arms apart, he could see a bright red glare from Sauron's tower. It was his Eye, burning through the smoke with the fierceness of the sun.

"Pull back," the Ranger said, espying it also. "Pull back!"

They obeyed, turning their horses about to follow him as he rode towards his men. A roaring sound was growing in Legolas' ears, harsh and guttural in the language of the Orcs. Before them, the men were becoming nervous, several of them backing up as they realized just how powerless they truly were. Their glances darted all around them; the entire line was in danger of collapsing.

"Hold your ground!" Aragorn commanded them, raising his sword in defiance of the Enemy. "Hold your ground!"

Though all of them looked terrified, none broke their formation as Isildur's heir rode along the ranks. "Sons of Gondor, of Rohan," he called as he went, "my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me!"

Legolas watched his friend speak to his troops, and knew without a doubt that he would have been the greatest king Gondor had ever seen since the days of Elendil the Tall. It grieved him to think that all his dreams, all of his toils, would come to naught in this hour.

"A day may come," Aragorn continued, "when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day."

The men were no longer moving. They remained utterly still, listening intently to what their leader was saying. Determination was awakening on their faces, grim and weary with trial. Though they might fall today, they would not go without costing the Enemy heavy loss.

"An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down!" Aragorn shouted, showing none of the fear that Legolas knew was racing through his friend. "But it is not this day. This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!"

He held his sword aloft as his horse reared proudly; Gondorians and Rohirrim alike withdrew their own blades, so that the sound of ringing metal echoed over the grounds. None of them would flee now—indeed, they were surrounded, for more Orcs had emerged from caves in the mountains.

Those on horse dismounted. Legolas stroked Arod's mane briefly. "Farewell, my friend," he murmured. Several squires came forward to lead the mares into the center of the troops, for even in this hopeless situation some care was taken for their animals.

All the while, the Orcs were drawing closer. He thought he could see now some Men filtered among their ranks, though none of them appeared to be from Harad, and there were no Easterlings. Rather, these looked like slaves of the Dark Lord, ones who were being forced to fight at his bidding.

A sigh from Gimli caught his attention. "Never thought I would die fighting side by side with an Elf," he muttered.

Legolas smiled. "What about side by side with a friend?" he asked, turning to the Dwarf who had been his companion for many months.

"Aye," Gimli said, nodding thoughtfully. "I could do that."

No more words did they exchange. Legolas fixed his gaze back on the Orcs, and though their numbers only seemed to be increasing his heart felt lighter than it had moments ago. This might have been the end, yet it was not as terrible as he had imagined it would be. He actually felt rather calm—sooner or later his end would come, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His only task now was to fight as hard and long as he was able, so that Frodo and Sam might have a chance.

Sauron's army had halted, and was now staring menacingly at their opponents, trying to intimidate them with looks alone. It did not matter what they did: The hearts of the Men of the West were set, and only death would take them from the battle. Andúril gleamed in the frail light, issuing a silent challenge to the darkness. Aragorn was staring directly at the Eye.

He stepped forward, lowering his sword. For a time, no one moved. Not even the Orcs seemed to breathe. A strange feeling crept over Legolas: His friend had faltered, doubtful, unsure of what to do. His shoulders were hesitant, his motions slow.

And then all of his thoughts were dispersed as Aragorn turned around and looked at them. A faint smile crept over his features. "For Frodo," he whispered.

Heeding not the danger, Aragorn Elessar of the Dúnedain raised his sword against the foes of his people. With a great cry, he sprang forward. Merry and Pippin leapt after him. As if they had been released from a spell, the Gondorians and the Rohirrim charged, their yells uplifted in the air. Legolas ran also, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he withdrew his bow and fired a shot. It bit into the throat of an Orc.

In seconds, hand to hand combat ensued. He abandoned his bow in favor of his knives, sinking them deep into an Orc. When he pulled them out, the white metal was stained with black blood. Soon, he had killed more Orcs than he could keep track of. The Free Peoples were holding their own against Sauron's army, though how long this would last he did not know.

As he slashed across the chest of an attacker, Legolas heard a familiar shrieking noise that sent shivers up and down his spine. He did not have to glance up to see the Nazgûl swooping down over the battlefield. Indeed, listening to their calls was enough; more than one of the men were hewn as they cowered, stricken senseless by the sound. The shadows of the Black Riders circled over the fighters endlessly, inflicting little physical damage but terrifying their enemies.

Yet then another cry was added to the chaos, shriller, yet not horrifying. In spite of himself, he looked up just in time to see one of the Nazgûl's steeds colliding with a smaller bird. Its feathers were bronze, its beak piercing through the flesh of the carrion beast.

"The eagles are coming!" he heard Pippin yell, and the call was uptaken by the other men. A glimmer of hope arose in his heart as the Nazgûl reeled. Something fell from the sky onto the ground, though he did not see what it was. And at that moment, an Orc lunged at him; he delivered a swift stroke to its neck, slaying him utterly. Above him the battle in the skies continued, with the eagles gaining the clear mastery.

It was then that the wind started to shift. Great screeching noises poured from the Nazgûl, and for reasons quite unknown to all they hastily left the fight, speeding away towards Barad-dûr. Their departure gave the men heart, and they attacked with increasing ferocity. Legolas saw Éomer give a fatal blow to an Orc with his shield, and knew that it was more than the Black Rider's absence that lent fury to his strokes. He fought for his sisters, one wounded in the course of battle and the other beyond all thought of rescue.

Another Orc fell beneath the twin knives; as its body collapsed to the ground, Legolas heard an inhuman growl not too far away. He turned and saw a mountain troll, clad in iron armor and carrying a thick sword in its hands, approaching Aragorn. Worry gripped at his heart, and he made his way closer to the Ranger. Men were circling all around the troll, looking for an opening in his defenses as their leader parried with it.

With a great roar, the creature swung his hand at Aragorn. Caught off guard, the man was flung to the ground. Legolas began hacking at the Orcs that stood between him and his friend, desperate to come to his aid before it was too late. Panic fueled his moments as Aragorn turned over, only to have his chest stomped on by the troll.

"Aragorn!" he yelled frantically, flinging aside an Orc that sought to deter him. The Ranger struggled under the troll's foot, unsheathing a dagger from his belt and stabbing it into the rough flesh.

Suddenly, an invisible bolt of energy surged through him. Legolas froze; he was not the only one who had felt it. A wailing cry rose over the battlefield, a shriek that seemed to scream of a thousand years' agony and torment. The mountain troll paused, his sword halfway raised to smite Aragorn. As one, the Orcs hesitated, glancing uncertainly back and forth between their opponents and the tower of Barad-dûr.

What had been an offense soon became a rout. The Enemy's forces began scattering in unexplained alarm, their will broken and defeated. Legolas did not continue fighting. His attention was fixed on Barad-dûr, on the Eye of Sauron. Clouds of shadow appeared to be swirling around the Dark Lord. It was then that he realized that Mount Doom was smoking, rumbling in forewarning of eruption. Only one thing could that mean.

"Frodo," he murmured in amazement, in disbelief, in a joyous shock beyond anything he had experienced, as the very foundations of Barad-dûr began crumbling. As if they were made of sticks, the iron walls were disintegrating, sliding down towards the ground as though they had been held together by flimsy strings. The Eye of Sauron blazed in terror as its impregnable fortress came hurtling to the ashen plain of Gorgoroth, yet it was growing smaller with each passing second.

Legolas gaped in open awe as the Dark Lord vanished, his spirit fleeing Middle-earth after thousands of years a shadow upon the minds of all the Free Peoples. Frodo Baggins of the Shire had destroyed the Ring, banishing Sauron the Great into the Void for all eternity. With his disappearance came a second bolt of energy, and then the stones of Barad-dûr exploded. His reign had ended.

The remains of the tower were flung onto the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that grew so that nothing else could be seen. It raced towards the Morannon, an unstoppable force. Legolas watched it as if hypnotized, hardly daring to conceive that Sauron had been vanquished at last. Triumphant shouts of "Frodo!" echoed numbly in his ears. The parched ground began sinking beneath the very feet of the Orcs, throwing them and the Morannon into the clutches of the earth. Sauron's empire was being decimated before their own eyes in an end that none of them had foreseen.

Only Mount Doom was left. And then it erupted, throwing molten lava hundreds of feet into the air. Legolas' heart froze, his happiness turned to horror. What had once been cries of delight morphed into tears; Pippin's face was wet as he wordlessly mouthed "Frodo" over and over again.

Yet not all were silent. "The realm of Sauron is ended!" Gandalf declared, though his eyes shone with tears. "The Ringbearer has fulfilled his Quest."

Even as he spoke, the leader of the eagles swooped down to land beside him. At his appearance, many of the Enemy that had not been able to flee cast aside their weapons, begging for mercy. These were all Men, ones whom had been least willing to fight. But Gandalf paid them no heed, leaving such matters to the others. He climbed atop the eagle, and before many were aware of it he had been lifted into the sky.

Legolas watched him go, and understood that he was trying to find Frodo. With every fiber of his being he hoped that the search would not be in vain. So much had the Halfling sacrificed for the good of Middle-earth; so much had he lost. His somber eyes roamed the battlefield, flickering over Aragorn—who had gotten to his feet, unharmed by the troll—and the Hobbits, weeping quietly together.

He saw Gimli then, and started making his way over to the Dwarf. Mercifully, his friend did not appear to be injured, but for a small cut on his head. He did not doubt that the attacker's victory had been short-lived. As he went, he gazed at the countless dead, though noting with relief that most of them were the Enemy. Only a few Gondorians and Rohirrim did he see.

To his right an Orc laid, an axe driven through his head. Yet it was not the gruesome sight that made him pause in curiosity: There was a hand sticking out from beneath it, a human hand, slender and looking strangely out of place amidst the carnage. He frowned and moved closer, wondering if it was a young boy—but he did not think that any had embarked upon the march to Mordor.

Drawn to it for some reason, he knelt beside the hand. It was small, and the skin was papery thin. Legolas knitted his eyebrows, and then reached out for the Orc. With no small amount of effort, for the creature was garbed in several pounds' worth of iron armor, he shoved the Orc off of the body. As he did, he found his eyes widening in shock and horror.

Gúthwyn's face was staring up at him.


	19. Healing

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Nineteen:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Nineteen**

Legolas' heart froze in that moment, and he was scarcely able to breathe as he looked down at Gúthwyn. Her eyes were closed, the lids covered in grime along with the rest of her face. For a terrifying instant, he thought she had perished. Frantically, he reached for her bony wrist, pressed his thumb on the inside of the flesh—avoiding the Eye that had been branded onto it—and waited with bated breath for a pulse.

At last, he felt it. Faint and weak, erratically beating, but still there. Such a wave of relief crashed over him that for a time he could do nothing but hold her limp form in his arms and thank the Valar that she was not dead. Over the last month, he had come to realize that she was not simply a woman who both feared and loathed him for no apparent reason. There was more to her, and though he could only observe her happiness from a distance, it had always lightened his spirits to see that some part of her remained untouched by her past.

Yet now… She did not look as if she would last much longer than a few days in her current state. Her clothing was tattered, hanging in shreds off of her; quickly, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her, smelling as he did so the familiar scent of blood. She did not stir at his touch, and he found himself carefully brushing the dirt away from her lips. They were parched and shriveled, desperately in need of water.

He was reaching for his canteen when he heard his name being called. Craning his neck around, he saw Aragorn striding towards him, a look of amazement on the Ranger's face. "My friend," he spoke, smiling. "A miracle—" Then his gaze fell on Gúthwyn, and he stared in shock at her body. Blinking rapidly, he knelt down beside her and said, "My eyes do not deceive me. How did she get here?"

Legolas opened his mouth to say that he did not know, yet then he suddenly recalled one of the events that he had seen during the battle. An eagle had attacked one of the Nazgûl near him, and something had fallen from the sky at their clashing. At the time, he had not known what it was, and assumed it to be a strange device of the Enemy, but now… "I think one of the Nazgûl had been carrying her," he murmured in amazement.

Aragorn glanced at him in puzzlement, though did not say anything in response. Instead, he asked, "Where is Éomer?"

Standing up, Legolas scanned the men, searching for the king of Rohan's distinguishable armor. In a few seconds he had found him, helping one of the guards to his feet. He was too far away to speak to, especially with such delicate news, and so he hastily carved a path through the men.

"Éomer," he said when he arrived. The man glanced at him, wiping some blood from his cheek. "Éomer, we have found Gúthwyn."

For a full minute, Éomer was still, a thousand vulnerable feelings displayed in his eyes. "Is she…" he trailed off, unable to speak his fears.

"She is alive," Legolas reassured him, and an expression of wonder and hope renewed spread across Éomer's face. It was so raw, unconcealed, and tender that he felt almost embarrassed for seeing it, and turned away. "Come with me," he said.

They strode swiftly to where Aragorn still held vigil over Gúthwyn. The Ranger glanced up as they came near, clearly worried. Éomer did not see this. Sinking to his knees, he gathered his sister in his arms and all but crushed her to his chest. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he rocked her back and forth. "Gúthwyn…" he whispered, caring little how openly he displayed his emotion.

When Éomer looked up, he asked hoarsely, "How is she?"

Aragorn sighed. "Not well, I fear," he replied somberly. "She fell from a great height, and her heartbeat is not how it should be. One of her ankles is broken, and her ribs are out of place."

Éomer quickly loosened his hold on her. She did not stir. "Has she been wounded?" he questioned fearfully.

"She is bleeding," Legolas told him, "though I do not know the cause, and the battlefield is not the best place to determine it; not with all the men around."

Indeed, some of the soldiers were coming over to their commanders, curiosity drawing them. One of the royal guards—Gamling, he believed—was the first to arrive, approaching Éomer hesitantly. "My lord, is everything—"

He stopped short at the sight of Gúthwyn's body. "By the Valar," he breathed, sinking to the ground beside Éomer. "The lady Gúthwyn!"

Aragorn stood up. "Éomer, make sure that she is given some water, and when you are in a private enough place examine her to see what the full extent of the damage is. I will find you before the day is out, though now I must deal with the men who have sued for pardon."

Éomer nodded, and then the Ranger left them. Legolas remained where he was, wondering if he should leave or stay.

"Is she going to be all right?" Gamling inquired hesitantly, looking up at his king. Legolas read in his eyes the devotion with which the Rohirrim loved Gúthwyn, much like a parent to their child.

For a long time, Éomer was silent. Legolas withdrew his canteen, offering it to him. Startled, the man accepted it, and began wetting Gúthwyn's lips with the water. Throughout his careful ministrations, she did not move an inch. It was as if she were dead, yet for some strange reason still breathing.

"My lord?" Gamling asked quietly.

"I do not know," Éomer said, his voice as heavy as his heart. "I do not know."

"I think she will live," Legolas spoke unexpectedly, his words as surprising to him as they were to the others. When Éomer glanced at him, he said, "She is strong."

"Strong of body," the son of Éomund murmured, using his sleeve to wipe the dirt from Gúthwyn's face. "But of spirit…"

None of them had an answer for that.

* * *

In the Field of Cormallen, a great expanse of green lawn within the confines of Ithilien, the Host of the West was encamped. Countless numbers of roughly-constructed tents dotted the grass, and though the evening was old torches still blazed in the night. Joyous singing wafted over the air, revelry such as been rarely matched in the dark years past. With the Dark Lord gone, there was much cause for celebration.

Yet some did not partake in the excitement. There were many things the Captains had to decide. Some issues had already been resolved. The men who had begged for pardon in Mordor had their wishes granted, and had been given the option of coming with the Host or staying in the Black Land until embassies could be sent. The fleeing Orcs had been dispatched or perished in the Dead Marshes, so that few of them could bring rumor of the event to other regions.

Messengers had been sent throughout Middle-earth, bringing word to Gondor, Rohan, and the Elvish provinces of the defeat of Sauron. Other men had gone into the northern reaches of Mordor to destroy the fortresses there and root out any remaining Orcs that they might find. The city of Minas Morgul, formerly Minas Ithil in its days of glory, was to be left alone, as the horrors there from the Nazgûl's reign would take years to diminish.

The battle itself had gone remarkably well. Only a dozen or so men had been lost, in comparison to the countless casualties of the Enemy. And perhaps most wondrous of all, Gandalf the White had rescued the Ringbearer and his companion Samwise from Mount Doom, just before the lava would have swallowed them. Both were unconscious, though the worst hurt was a missing finger—Frodo.

At the moment, the Lord Aragorn was tending to the Ringbearer. The Ranger was to become the king of Gondor, and would be crowned on the first day of May. Much work did he have before him: The Corsairs of Umbar still needed to be subdued, as well as the Haradrim and Easterlings. Treaties of peace were to be sent to all of Gondor's allies, asking them to renew their vows of allegiance; most famously, the oath that Eorl the Young had sworn to Ceorl the Steward, binding Rohan and Gondor together.

All of this and more were but on the fringes of Éomer Éadig's mind, utterly unimportant, though he was now the king of Rohan. He sat stiffly on a crude chair in his tent, his head bowed as he silently watched over his sister. Gúthwyn was still wrapped in Legolas' cloak—the Elf had refused to take it back—and she had not moved at all since Éomer had brought her here.

He stared numbly at her face, so pale and peaceful that it was as if she had already succumbed to death. Yet her chest was rising and falling steadily, giving the faint hope that she would awake soon. His gaze traveled over her lips, utterly dry though he had given her water but a minute ago. He had seen them shriveling before his very eyes when he had put away the canteen.

So much loss… so much his family had been forced to endure. His mother and father had died within the same year. Both he and Éowyn had been tormented with grief, but three-year-old Gúthwyn, always in his mind the baby of the family, had barely understood what was going on. She had been the first to recover; her smiles and gurgling laughter had helped to heal them. Now, their childhood days were but memories of the past, and none of them had the same carefree innocence that had been theirs so long ago.

"Éomer?" A quiet, subdued voice sounded from outside the tent. He gave no answer, though eventually the tent flap opened. He glanced up to see Legolas stepping in. "How is she?" the Elf asked concernedly.

The words would not come to him. Éomer was afraid, terribly afraid, that Gúthwyn would never wake up, that her body would just get colder and colder until one day it was frozen in the endless sleep of death. And if she perished, he would never forgive himself. If only he had looked for her when Éowyn had been found; his sister had been placed in capable hands, yet he still had been reluctant to leave her. If he had only _searched_, he would have been able to stop Gúthwyn in time.

"Éomer?"

Startled out of his thoughts, he looked at Legolas, and saw a pair of anxious eyes focused on him. "Are you all right?"

Sardonic laughter, surprising even him, poured from his mouth. "All right?" he echoed, snorting bitterly. "Do I _look_ all right?"

Legolas bowed his head. "I am sorry," he replied, and moved closer to Gúthwyn. Ordinarily, Éomer would have shot him a warning glare, but he could not muster up the energy to. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He knelt beside the cot, arranging Gúthwyn more comfortably on her back. Éomer realized with a surge of guilt that he had been so absorbed in his dark musings that he had not even examined his sister to see all of her injuries.

As if reading his thoughts, Legolas asked, "Is she still bleeding?"

"I…" Why could he not speak? What was wrong with him? Why was his mind failing when his beloved sister needed help the most?

Legolas looked at him with pity, though at that moment the tent flap opened again. Aragorn strode inside, carrying with him his bag of healing supplies.

Standing up, the Elven prince queried, "How is Frodo doing?"

"He is fine," Aragorn answered, wiping his brow. "Samwise told me that his finger was bitten off by the creature Gollum, though that was the worst hurt."

Éomer barely processed what the Ranger was saying, though Legolas' eyebrows rose.

"How is she?" Aragorn asked somberly, kneeling down next to the cot. He opened his pack as he spoke, causing an assortment of herbs to spill out onto the blanket. Most of them Éomer had never seen before.

"She… She has not stirred," Éomer muttered, defeat slumping his shoulders.

Aragorn's brow was creased as he took out a rag. Legolas swiftly retrieved a bucket of water from the corner of the tent and handed it to him. Dragging his chair closer to the cot, Éomer watched as the Ranger dipped the rag in the water, squeezing the excess liquid out before dabbing at Gúthwyn's forehead. He had ground some herbs beforehand, and a sweet smell drifted into their noses.

"You said she fell," Éomer spoke suddenly, glancing at the man. "How? From where?"

"During the battle," Legolas replied, "I saw something drop from the steed of the Nazgûl. Then I did not know what it was, but now it seems to me not unlikely that it was her."

"But why?" Éomer asked in bafflement, staring at the lifeless body. "Why would they be carrying her?"

"Perhaps when she awakes, she can answer your questions," Aragorn told him, lowering the rag onto the bed. He reached out for Legolas' cloak, seeking to unwrap it. Yet Éomer's sudden, fierce glare halted him. "I need to see her injuries," the Ranger explained simply.

"Do you want me to leave?" Legolas inquired, his hands pausing inside the bucket where he had dipped a rag.

Éomer looked back and forth between the two of them, and sighed. He was overreacting. Legolas had already seen Gúthwyn without the cloak, as it had been he who covered her. And Aragorn was a healer, whose heart belonged to another and had been proven trustworthy. "My apologies," he said gruffly, taking a deep breath.

Aragorn nodded at him, and the Elf resumed his task. Under Éomer's shrewd eye, the Ranger undid the clasp of the cloak, and allowed it to fall from Gúthwyn's shoulders. They were bare, and the king of Rohan winced, but neither of the others showed the slightest change in their expression. The cloak was gradually removed from her, and to Éomer's relief her shirt had not been torn as badly as he had feared.

"Has she broken her ribs before?" Aragorn questioned, rolling Gúthwyn's tunic up slightly to examine them. Nearly all of the bones appeared to be somewhat displaced, and they were alarmingly sharp against her thin stomach.

Éomer searched through his memories of all that Haldor had done to her, though he came up with nothing of the sort. Yet it was not he who answered, but Legolas. "Yes," the Elf responded, and Éomer's head swiveled around to look at him keenly.

"How do you know of this?" he demanded, his voice harsher than he intended.

Was it his imagination, or did Legolas' eyes become guarded? "She mentioned it in passing," was his brief response.

"Stitches…" Aragorn murmured, gently touching Gúthwyn's stomach. "These are fresh."

"Perhaps she was wounded at the Pelennor Fields?" Éomer suggested, leaning closer to see better. His eyes fell upon a neat, perfectly even row of stitches, and he blinked: Gúthwyn had been absolutely abysmal at needlework, achieving the near-impossible feat of being worse than Éowyn.

Aragorn made an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, and then said, "Well, she will know from experience that she is to keep off of her feet for at least a month. Preferably more, if she can stand it. Remind her to take deep breaths, even if it pains her."

Éomer nodded, storing all of the information away in his mind and praying that Gúthwyn would be awake for him to give the instructions.

"Now, for her back…" Aragorn murmured, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Éomer asked, his heart racing as he thought of the gruesome tales Gúthwyn had told him about what Haldor used to do with his knife. He himself had not seen the scars, though he could only imagine how horrible they looked.

"That is where the bleeding was coming from," Aragorn told him, standing up. "Legolas, will you help me turn her over? Take care not to jostle her ribs, for it is bad enough having to put her weight on them."

The Elf nodded, and together the two of them lifted Gúthwyn and placed her on her stomach. Éomer prayed for something, even a grimace of pain, from his sister, but he had no such luck.

"She is as light as a child," Legolas marveled, though his eyes were worried. "Surely that is not natural?"

"I doubt she was fed properly in her captivity," Aragorn said, taking a soaked rag from the bucket.

Éomer gritted his teeth in frustration, eliciting a sympathetic look from Legolas. To see his sister so frail, so weak, and being unable to do anything about it was driving him mad. Now he thought he had an inkling of how Éowyn must have felt, waiting in the Golden Hall for tidings to return to her regarding her brother's expeditions and forays against the Orcs: Utterly powerless and useless.

"I need to remove her shirt," Aragorn spoke then, asking for permission without raising the question. Éomer hesitated, and at length nodded. With a professional efficiency that made him slightly embarrassed of his own reaction, Aragorn raised Gúthwyn's arms and slipped the tunic over them. Three pairs of eyes widened: Her back was so covered in dried blood that hardly any of the flesh could be seen.

Both Aragorn and Legolas set to work, the Elf cleaning soiled rags and handing them to the Ranger to be used again. Aragorn cleaned away all the blood, careful not to scour too deeply. His face grew steadily paler as he did the task, and when the last fluids had been washed off Éomer saw the source of his worry. A gasp flew from his mouth, sharp and unrestrained.

All over his sister's back were horrific welts and wounds, most of them only half healed. The flesh was pitted and scarred, in some places a faint green color. Haldor's craftsmanship had been brutal and merciless. The lacerations stretched from the patch of skin between Gúthwyn's shoulder blades and went all the way down to her lower back, where they were as a line of angry red ants against her skin.

The others' shocked and disgusted eyes met Éomer's. He stood up from his chair, hearing it fall to the ground with a clattering noise behind him. "E-Excuse me," he managed, and left the tent.

He barely made it three feet before he was vomiting. A hardened warrior was the son of Éomund, and he had seen—received, as well—many grisly injuries, yet the sight of them on his own sister was too much. He could not believe that any one being could be so heartless, so callous, and torture another with such ghastly techniques. Picturing a faceless Elf standing above Gúthwyn, carving the blade down her back as she screamed in agony, he retched even more.

When he returned to the tent, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Legolas was sketching something on a scrap of paper. Hoping to take his mind and eyes off of the painful reminders of Gúthwyn's past, Éomer questioned, "What are you drawing?"

Legolas held up the paper, and Éomer looked at it in confusion. It was a stick figure of a small child, an arrow stuck through his head, with a diagonal slash across the entire thing. "What is that?" he asked in mild revulsion, wondering what on earth had possessed the Elf to do this.

The response of the prince was to point at Gúthwyn's back. Éomer followed his gaze and nearly threw up again. He had been so appalled to see the wounds on his sister that he had not seen what the welts and cuts had formed. It was the very thing that Legolas had drawn, though far rougher. Yet it was unmistakable.

He recalled Gúthwyn telling him about the symbol; Haldor had used it as a warning to her, saying that if she did not go to Ithilien as she had been instructed, he would kill one of the children. Éomer's eyes flashed, and he could hardly speak for fury. When he was able to choke out a few words, they were drenched in a bitter hatred. "That whoreson!" he snarled, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails drew blood from his palms.

Legolas appeared as if he were about to be sick. "Haldor?" he asked, inhaling sharply. Aragorn glanced quickly at the two of them, his grey eyes wide as he connected the Elf Gúthwyn had slain to the creator of her scars.

Éomer could only nod, and for a long moment none of them said anything. Legolas' head was bowed.

At length, Aragorn said, "The wounds are recovering. They are not too old, yet neither are they new."

It was a small consolation, and could not make up for all that Haldor had done, but Éomer breathed a little easier afterwards. Aragorn bandaged up Gúthwyn's entire torso, giving the cloth some slack so that her ribs were not hurt but keeping it taut enough in order to soak up any blood that might come forth.

"For as long as you can manage it, keep her from walking," Aragorn cautioned, putting the tunic back on Gúthwyn. He gestured at her right ankle, which was bent in a strange way. "This is broken."

Legolas handed the Ranger more bandages. Aragorn began crafting a makeshift splint for the woman, wrapping it tightly around her ankle. Soon it was completed, and Gúthwyn was turned over so that her ribs no longer bore the brunt of her weight, meager though it was. Taking his cloak, Legolas spread it gently over her, and in one of the few displays of emotion Éomer had ever seen from him he smoothed Gúthwyn's hair away from her face.

"Aragorn," Éomer began as the man and the Elf started standing up. "Is she going to be all right? Will she wake?" He could not keep the fear from his voice as he said this, just as he could not stop his nails from gouging into his hands.

For a long time, Aragorn did not respond. When he finally did, his words were slow and cautious. "She has not perished from her injuries," he replied, "and that is hope in itself. Yet the Black Breath lay heavily upon her, which I have tried to heal with the _athelas_, though it is a paltry cure against so strong a disease. Furthermore, it seems to me that she has suffered a great deal, the least of which was physical harm, and if she does not desire to awake then she may very well not. But I would also say that she loves you and Éowyn, and her people—such love, I deem, will not loosen its grip on her so easily."

"Thank you so much," Éomer murmured, moving closer to Gúthwyn and kneeling at her side. "You have healed both of my sisters, and I am greatly in your debt."

"Think naught of it, my friend," Aragorn told him sincerely. "I have wished Éowyn and Gúthwyn well since I knew their minds." He inclined his head, and without another word he departed from the tent.

Legolas lingered for a moment. "I hope she recovers," he said quietly, his hand on the tent flap. "I look forward to seeing her healthy."

The Elf left then, and long after all had fallen silent Éomer sat beside his sister's bed. By the flickering candlelight he could see the lines of Legolas' drawing, and shivered. With a shaking hand, he swatted it off of the cot, letting it fall to the ground. He did not want it on Gúthwyn's cot.

_Please bring her back,_ he prayed to the Valar. _Please bring my sister back._


	20. Looking To the Future

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part Three: Terms**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Terms will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty:  
**As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. **IMPORTANT:** I am _not_ having Aragorn marry Arwen at his coronation, like he did in the movie. I will be going by _book_ canon in this regard. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

**Chapter Twenty**

Light. It was there, piercing through the darkness… She was puzzled. All had been black, and Haldor had been there, and the maggots, and Borogor had died. She shivered in despair, but the light did not go away. It remained, prodding gently at her eyelids. What was happening? Had her spirit fled its body, and traveled to the halls above? Stirring, she tried to see around her, yet she could not open her eyes.

"Gúthwyn?" A voice, hesitant, though sounding strangely hopeful, echoed in her ears. She attempted to answer, but all that came out was a muffled groan. Confusion wreaked havoc upon her. Was her hailer a messenger of the Valar, sent to welcome her into the heavens? Had she left Middle-earth, her people, Hammel and Haiweth?

At the thought of the children, she moaned. A golden haze appeared above her, thick and blurry. She reached out for it, but could not even move her arms. Was this death? To be trapped in a paralysis for all eternity?

"Gúthwyn, please, wake up."

Something was growing into focus in front of her eyes. The yellow shimmer was hair, she thought, and trembled. An Elf? Haldor?

"No…" she choked out weakly. The action made her cough; it hurt so much that she nearly cried out. And then she became aware of aches and pains spreading over her entire body, sharp and acute like needles sticking out of her.

"Gúthwyn, it is I, Éowyn."

Now the light was more persistent. Her eyes watered at its touch, and she forced them to open more. Éowyn was there. Had they both died? Had they both fallen at the battle? No, not the battle. She had gone to Mordor, and the Nazgûl…

"No," she said again, lifting her hand as a shield against the painful light. It only rose about three inches before she lost her strength and had to lower it.

Two hands were placed on her shoulders. Éowyn was close to her, and she could make out some of the features on her sister's face. She smiled faintly. "Éowyn…"

"Thank the Valar!" her sister whispered. Gúthwyn's vision cleared to see the broad grin above her, the sparkling eyes and the beaming expression.

"Where am I?" she asked, trying to sit up. A sharp pain in her ribs stopped her, and she could not move without gasping.

"You are in the Houses of Healing," Éowyn replied; "in Gondor."

"I must be dreaming…" Gúthwyn murmured, staring all around her in awe. The room she was in was bigger than her own at Meduseld, carven entirely out of stone. Yet it was an open, wholesome space, with a large window that looked out upon a garden. Aside from her bed, which had been made with fresh linen sheets, the only other furniture in the room was a wooden chair, two tables, and a tall lamp. Tapestries had been hung on the walls, and assorted plants were on many of the surfaces.

"No, sister, you are not dreaming," Éowyn said, delighting in Gúthwyn's wonder. "You are awake!"

She must have been alive, for how else could she have felt the pain in her ribs? "What happened?" Gúthwyn asked, pressing her hands over them and trying to take deep breaths as Borogor had instructed her long ago. She twitched her feet, and felt that one of them had been wrapped in bandages. "Where is everyone? What is the date? How did I get here?"

Éowyn stood up and went to the nightstand. She took a pitcher of water from the table. Filling a cup with the cool liquid, she held it out to Gúthwyn. "Drink this first," she said. "You have had little to drink, and next to nothing to eat."

Gúthwyn obliged, swallowing a little of the water and trying to settle herself more comfortably. She winced with each movement.

"Today is the twenty-fifth of May," Éowyn began, sitting down in the chair. "You have been asleep for two months."

"Two months?" Gúthwyn gasped in shock. Now, more than ever, she was lost. Had Sauron not imprisoned her in one of his dungeons? Had Middle-earth not been on the brink of destruction?

"Aye," Éowyn replied, tugging at the cloak that she wore around her shoulders. Gúthwyn noticed that it was a fine blue, made of dyes that were rare and extremely valuable. There were silver stars embroidered upon it.

"Where did you get that?" she asked, but Éowyn hushed her.

"I will tell you in due time," was her mysterious response. "Now, sister, need I inform you that I have never been so frantic in my entire life than when I learned that you had gone to Mordor."

Gúthwyn bowed her head. "I am sorry," she muttered. "I did not wish to bring you any grief."

Éowyn waved her apologies away. "I know why you did that, and to me it was a worthy cause."

"The children," Gúthwyn said then, trying once more to sit up. "Where are they? Are they all right? Did they make it back to Gondor?"

"They are fine," Éowyn assured her. "Hammel and Haiweth are safe and in the city."

All the breath left her then, and Gúthwyn could hardly speak for relief. She sank back down onto the pillows, tears of joy pricking at her eyes. "When can I see them?" she at last managed.

"Soon," Éowyn promised sincerely. "There are some things I need to tell you beforehand, however."

Something in her tone hinted at an underlying sadness, and Gúthwyn frowned. "Where are Théoden and Éomer?" she asked.

"Éomer is currently holding council with King Elessar, exchanging vows of allegiance with him."

"What?" Gúthwyn blinked several times, unsure of whether she had heard her sister correctly. "King Elessar? And would it not be our uncle's duty to sign treaties?"

"King Elessar is the Lord Aragorn," Éowyn explained, and Gúthwyn's eyes widened in astonishment.

"How did he—" she began, but Éowyn hushed her.  
"Please, Gúthwyn, let me tell you what happened at the battle first. We were separated, so you did not see some things."

Nodding in assent, though itching with curiosity, Gúthwyn leaned back onto her pillows.

"Do you recall when the Nazgûl came onto the field?" Éowyn asked her, her eyes darkening and her face seeming paler than it normally was.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied. "I steered Heorot away from the Black Rider, so I did not even see the damage it did."

Éowyn heaved a long sigh, her face mournful. "Then you did not see when the Nazgûl—the Witch-king—took Snowmane and threw him to the ground, pinning Uncle beneath him."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in horror. "Is he all right?" she demanded anxiously.

Now a strange expression was about Éowyn, and Gúthwyn noticed that one of her sister's arms was whiter than the other, lying limply on her lap. "I stood between the Nazgûl and Théoden," Éowyn said, "and defended the king. I slew the carrion beast, and then the Witch-king broke my shield-arm. He grabbed me by the throat, and a great despair came over me. But for Meriadoc the Halfling, I would have perished. He came up behind the Black Rider and stabbed him in the knee, causing him to crumble to the ground."

As she listened to the tale, Gúthwyn's eyes grew rounder, until she thought they would pop out of her head in wonder. But Éowyn had not finished. "I drove my sword through where his face should have been, and he perished. I nearly fainted, though I managed to go over to Théoden. Gúthwyn… our uncle is dead."

There was a long, heavy silence. "Oh," Gúthwyn at last said numbly. Now more than ever she rued listening to Haldor. Because of him, she had not cherished Théoden the way she should have; and now he was gone, never to know the extent of how much she loved him. Grief fell upon her then, and she bowed her head.

A quiet moment passed. Then Éowyn began her story again. "Éomer is now the king of Rohan," she said, and Gúthwyn looked up. "Théoden lies in the Tower of Ecthelion, and when you are fit to walk you may see him."

"Soon?" Gúthwyn asked immediately.

Éowyn hesitated. "Perhaps," she answered, and continued. "After the battle, many were brought into the Houses of Healing. Merry and I were but two of them. For a long time, it seemed, I lay in a strange land of dark dreams. Yet then someone called me, and I awoke to see Aragorn. He had healed me, and brought me back from the shadows."

Gúthwyn looked at her sister, wondering if her unrequited love for the Ranger remained undiminished. Éowyn guessed her silent question, and shook her head. "No longer does my heart belong to him," she said. "Though I will be forever grateful to him for saving my life, and bringing hope to our people. And I was not the only one he tended to: Many owe the healing of their injuries to Lord Aragorn, for he came into the Houses of Healing at night and labored for many hours."

She had known that Aragorn was a skilled healer, as he had grown up in Rivendell and doubtless learned Elvish remedies from those around him. Now, she reminded herself to thank him later for the work he had done on her sister, when before she would have berated him for enduring her affections without a word against them.

"Éomer stayed by my side," Éowyn said then, "and on a time I asked him where you were. He was unaware that you had even been at the battlefield, and left to find you."

A twinge of guilt came over Gúthwyn as she thought of all the distress that she must have caused her brother.

"As he later told me, Gandalf found him and gave him your things. They had been left in Shadowfax's empty stall." As she spoke, Éowyn motioned to the nightstand, and Gúthwyn saw that her pack and sword were on it. Here her sister paused, and asked, "How did he permit you to ride him?"

"I think he took pity on me," Gúthwyn said slowly, not altogether sure herself. "I do not fully know. Yet he bore me to Mordor, and when I gave the password to open the Gates he entered the Black Land."

"Hammel told me that he saw you not too far from the Morannon," Éowyn said, inviting her to elaborate.

"Aye," Gúthwyn answered, frowning as she tried to remember what had happened afterwards. "I put him and Haiweth on Shadowfax, and gave them instruction to find you, Éomer, or Théoden when they reached the White City. After they had left, one of the Nazgûl came." She shivered, recalling the horror that had fallen over her. "He took me by the throat…" From there, it was a rush of confused memories, dark and terrifying, bringing with them a smell of decay and filth, and the brief sensation of chains around her wrists…

"Gúthwyn?" Éowyn asked quietly, and she shook herself out of her thoughts to glance at her sister.

"Sorry," she replied, blinking. "I do not know what happened next, and I am at a loss as to how I got here."

Éowyn looked at her sympathetically. "I am afraid I cannot tell you much," she replied. "While Éomer was searching, the children arrived at the Gates. Hammel told him of what you had done."

Once again, Gúthwyn apologized. "I am sorry," she said fervently. "If I could have departed with lesser grief, I would have done so."

"It was a grim day, sister." Éowyn's voice was subdued, as if she could still feel the anguish of that time. "When Éomer brought the news back to me, I did not want to accept it. But I saw the children for myself, and knew that it was true."

"Were they well-behaved?" Gúthwyn could not help but ask.

"I do not believe I have ever seen more disciplined, quiet children in my life," Éowyn said, a touch of sadness on her face. "Indeed, the youngest did not speak, and Hammel did all the talking for her."

"Is Haiweth all right now?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, concerned for the girl.

Éowyn was silent for a moment. At last she said, "I think that, once she sees you awake, she will be fine. She is frightened of this place, with its large stone walls, and when you were brought back here as if dead she cried for several days."

"May I see her?" Worry came over Gúthwyn as she thought of Haiweth's fear. She wanted to hold the child in her arms and assure her that everything was fine, that they were all safe, that she was not going anywhere.

"The two of them are with Tun now," Éowyn said. "I promise, when I have finished explaining I will retrieve them for you."

Only somewhat content at her sister's words, Gúthwyn nodded. "So Tun is not injured?" she asked, relieved that her champion had not perished.

"His leg was wounded badly," Éowyn told her, "and he did not go to the Black Gate because of it. Yet now he has recovered, and is far more concerned about you than himself, I deem."

She blushed. "It seems I have caused many people unwarranted anxiety," she muttered, slightly abashed.

"Anxiety, to say the least." Éowyn smiled grimly. "Between me, Éomer, Tun, and the children, you have not spent a moment alone. The Hobbits, Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas have also all inquired after your well being."

"Legolas?" Gúthwyn echoed in puzzlement, wondering why on earth the Elf had visited her, and trembling a little as she imagined him watching her while she was sleeping.

"Yes," her sister confirmed. "He was the one who found you. But once more, we are getting ahead of ourselves."

"Then please," Gúthwyn said, "hasten the tale, for I fear I shall faint of curiosity."

"Then do not interrupt me so often," Éowyn smiled. "Less than a day after the battle, the captains held a council, and decided to march on the Black Land so that they might keep his attention away from the Ringbearer."

Gúthwyn barely had time to wonder how her sister knew of Frodo before she continued. "The next morning, they left Gondor. Unfortunately, I was bound to my bed, and could not go. A week later, they had arrived at the Morannon, and there fought against Sauron's forces. They were overwhelmed, and would have fallen, had Frodo not completed his task and destroyed the One Ring."

A wave of shock crashed over her. Gúthwyn could scarcely believe that what she was hearing was true. "What of Sauron? Is he gone, then?"

"Yes!" Éowyn exclaimed, a broad grin spreading across her face. "It was the twenty-fifth of March, two months ago, and hereafter it shall be known as the New Year in the Gondorian calendar."

Gúthwyn sat in astonishment, marveling at all that had come to pass while she had been asleep. And then feelings of shame came over her as she remembered trying to steal the Ring from Frodo. She would have to apologize to him as soon as possible, even if he did not know what her purpose had been when she had accompanied the Fellowship. But for now, she was glad that he had finished his mission, and rid the lands of evil. She could hardly begin to imagine what things would be like without Sauron's shadow hanging upon them all like a thundercloud.

"When the battle was over," Éowyn said then, "Legolas saw your body beneath an Orc's. He said that he thought one of the Nazgûl had been carrying you, for he had seen something fall from the sky when a Black Rider was attacked by an eagle."

"Carrying me?" Gúthwyn asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion and trying to think of why that would be. The last thing she recalled of her stay in the Black Land was a cold gauntlet stroking her cheek; then, she must have fainted.

"I do not know why," Éowyn admitted. "But you are lucky that it was so, for Legolas found you as a result."

Her cheeks turned a faint red. Gúthwyn did not like the idea of Legolas seeing her so weak—he had a distinct talent for doing so, matched only by Haldor and Borogor.

"W-What did I look like?" she asked cautiously, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"Well," Éowyn began, sighing, "your ribs were broken."

Gúthwyn glanced down, noting the bandages that had been wrapped around her. They were so thick that they were visible even beneath her nightgown. A groan escaped her. "Are they almost healed?" she asked, already tired of her bed. "I shall go mad if I have to stay here long."

"I think that in a week or two you will be able to move about," Éowyn guessed. "Though only if the Warden of these Houses allows it."

A noise of impatience escaped Gúthwyn. "What of my ankle?" she inquired, rotating it around a little and feeling a shoot of pain race up her leg.

"Broken as well," Éowyn replied. "I am surprised that your injuries were not worse. But…" She looked awkward. "I heard of the wounds on your back."

Gúthwyn stiffened slightly. "D-Did Éomer…?"

Éowyn withdrew from the folds of her robe a small piece of paper. "Legolas drew this," she said, her throat sounding constricted. "It was what your wounds looked like."

Confused, Gúthwyn took it, and the next second had cried out in horror. For the very same symbol that Haldor had shot an arrow into so long ago, and the image of the toy he had carven Hammel, was sketched on the paper. She trembled violently. Tears came to her eyes as she realized that she had been carrying Haldor's warning along with her all this time, never noticing it. Yet he had known that she would have seen it one day… "Th-_This_ was on my back?" she choked out, flinging it away from her and pressing a shaking hand over her mouth.

Nodding solemnly, Éowyn said, "Gúthwyn… Éomer told me all that… all that Haldor did to you."

For a moment, Gúthwyn did not dare to breathe. In trepidation she glanced at Éowyn, wondering if her sister was ashamed of her.

Yet Éowyn's eyes were not mocking, and she slipped off of the chair to kneel beside Gúthwyn. Taking her hand, she whispered, "I wanted to tell you that if there is anything, _anything_ you want to talk about, I will listen. I may not be with you for long, but if there are some things you feel you cannot speak about with Éomer, I will always be there for you. Do you understand?"

"I…" Gúthwyn could hardly speak. Something had seemed off about her sister's speech, but she brushed away the nagging concerns. Words could not describe how grateful she was that her sister had not turned her away in disgust. She smiled, trying to blink away the tears in her eyes, and said, "Thank you so much."

Éowyn squeezed her hand comfortingly. "You are most welcome," she replied. Standing up, she asked, "Would you like to see the children now?"

"Yes!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, hastily wiping away all traces of her sadness. She picked up Legolas' drawing and stuffed it into a drawer, determined to forget about both him and Haldor for the time being.

Éowyn left the room, and a few endless moments later Gúthwyn saw Haiweth's face peering around the door.

"Haiweth," Gúthwyn murmured, and that was all the little girl needed. With a cry of delight, Haiweth raced over to the bed and leapt on top of it, smothering Gúthwyn beneath her wriggling form.

Wincing as her ribs were jolted, Gúthwyn nevertheless smiled in pure happiness as she hugged the girl tightly to her. Hammel came into the room then, his appearance far more subdued than that of his sister's.

"Hammel," she said, beaming. Haiweth settled down onto her lap, giggling with unrestrained joy.

Hammel approached her, a smile on his face. He did not say anything, but climbed carefully onto the bed and sat next to her, far more aware of her injuries than Haiweth was. "How are you?" he inquired.

"Absolutely wonderful," Gúthwyn declared, wrapping an arm around him and holding him tightly. His expression did not change, though she knew that he was pleased.

Determined not to be left out, Haiweth exclaimed, "Me too!"

Gúthwyn took the girl into her other arm, feeling a deep sense of contentment come over her as Haiweth rested her head on her shoulder. "You need a haircut," she murmured into a mass of locks.

"Dîrbenn tried to give her one while you were gone," Hammel said quietly. "She would not let him."

Absent-mindedly stroking Haiweth's hair, Gúthwyn looked at the boy. "You miss him, do you not?" she asked gently.

"He was kind to us," Hammel replied, and did not elaborate. Gúthwyn sighed softly, wondering where the man was now. Like as not, he had perished in the battle before the Black Gate.

"You were nicer," Haiweth said, her voice carrying the firmness of a six-year-old who knows, without a doubt, that they are right. "He did not know how to make the monsters go away."

Sometime during their second year at Mordor, Haiweth had begun having nightmares of monsters chasing her. They did not occur often, usually only once or twice a month, but it was near impossible to convince her to go to sleep afterwards.

Gúthwyn kissed the top of Haiweth's head. "I am sure he tried," she responded. "And now you are safe, with no one to hurt you."

"We have been walking around the city," Hammel commented. "It is large."

"Everything looks the same!" Haiweth complained, pouting.

"Who has been watching you?" Gúthwyn inquired.

Hammel glanced at her. "Your friend, Tun," he replied. She thought she saw something flicker in his eyes.

Haiweth raised her head. "Tun," she repeated.

Smiling, Gúthwyn said, "He is a wonderful man."

"Tun."

"Yes, Tun."

"No, Tun!" Haiweth at last cried, pointing with her finger to the door.

Startled, Gúthwyn looked up and saw her champion standing at the entrance to her room, watching the scene with a broad grin across his face. When their eyes met, he bowed, and made his way towards her.

"My lady," he said, and leaning over Hammel he put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her on the brow. Gúthwyn was slightly surprised at this, but when he straightened and looked at her she saw utmost relief and joy on his face. "I am so glad that you are awake."

"And it pleases me to know that you are alive," she responded earnestly, smiling at him. "How is your leg?"

"It is fine," he said immediately, and sat down in the chair beside the bed. "How are you?" he wanted to know.

"Better," Gúthwyn told him, holding Haiweth tighter and allowing the child to play with her hair.

"It seems that you are determined to make me sick with worry," Tun teased her, though his eyes still contained shadows of his former anxiousness.

Blushing, she apologized. "It was never my intent to make you distressed," she said. "I wish I had not."

"Though now you are back," Tun replied, "and my heart sings to see that you are well."

She smiled at this, and felt her cheeks redden a little more. "Thank you so much for watching Hammel and Haiweth," she said, hugging the two children firmly.

"It was my pleasure," Tun assured her. "When you are well, I will show you around the city like I did them. There are many things to see."

"I look forward to it," Gúthwyn said, sighing a little. "Though I do not know when that will be, thanks to my ribs."

"I will carry you, if needs be," Tun vowed, and she giggled. "For you must see this place. It is amazing."

At that moment, Éowyn's voice sounded from the doorway. "Mind my sister, Tun, for she still is healing, despite what she might say."

Gúthwyn glanced at her sister, and grinned sheepishly. Tun looked similarly abashed as he stood up and made room for Éowyn. "I can assure you that Gúthwyn will come to no harm by me," he said, and bowed to Éomund's youngest daughter. "I will leave you alone now, though I pray you will accept my company later."

"As a matter of fact," Éowyn interjected, stepping further into the room, "will you take Hammel and Haiweth with you? There is something I wish to discuss in private with Gúthwyn."

Gúthwyn knitted her eyebrows in confusion, though Tun nodded and said, "Of course."

Hammel slid off of the bed, patting Gúthwyn's hand one last time before turning to her champion. Haiweth took a little longer, for she was reluctant to leave, but with a small amount of coaxing she was persuaded to join her brother.

"Tun," Gúthwyn said as the three of them were about to leave. Tun looked back at her and paused. "Have you seen Lebryn at all?"

"Yes," Tun replied, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "He came through both battles with hardly a scratch. Cobryn is with him, as well."

"Cobryn?" Gúthwyn echoed in surprise. "I thought he stayed behind."

"He journeyed to Gondor when he learned of the victory," Tun explained, and a mischievous smile crept up his face. "He wishes me to tell you that he will whack you over the head with his new cane the next time he sees you, for all the worry you have caused him."

Gúthwyn laughed. "Tell him that I would very much like to be on the receiving end of his blows, if it means I get to see him soon."

"I will," Tun said, and he and the children left the room.

"What is it that you wish to tell me?" Gúthwyn inquired as Éowyn sat down in the chair. "You have me curious, sister."

Éowyn smiled, once again fiddling with the hem of her cloak. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I have met a man, and I intend to marry him."

She could not have chosen another way to hit Gúthwyn harder. Nearly all the breath left her body, and she gaped at Éowyn in utter shock. The last time she had seen her sister, she had been trying to recover from Aragorn's rejection—now she was _betrothed?_

"W-Who?" she at last choked out, stumbling over the words.

Éowyn blushed with a giddiness that Gúthwyn had never seen about her. "I will not tell you," she replied, "not until you meet him. For he is a well-known man in the city, and I would have you form your own opinion."

"You are getting _married_ and you will not even give your own sister the satisfaction of knowing his _name?_" Gúthwyn asked incredulously, hardly able to believe her ears. She felt completely lost and out of the loop. "Does Éomer know who he is?"

"Yes," Éowyn said, grinning. "And he has given his consent, though I desire for you to meet him first. He has some duties that he needs to attend to, so he will not return to the White City for two weeks—until then, you must be patient."

"Éowyn!" Gúthwyn groaned, slightly irritated at her sister. "Will you not just tell me? I am sure he is wonderful, if you are marrying him!" It bothered her to learn that Éowyn was to be wed—and likely leave her—without knowing who her husband would be. She felt as if precious things were slipping by her, and she could not even try to rescue them.

"I promise, Gúthwyn, you will meet him soon," Éowyn told her. "Please, do not ask anyone. I want you to see him without others' thoughts clouding your judgment."

"Why?" Gúthwyn inquired. "Does he have a bad reputation?"

Éowyn laughed, and the sound of it rather annoyed Gúthwyn. "Of course not!" she exclaimed. "I merely want you to make your own decision about whether or not you think he is suitable."

"My opinion does not matter!" Gúthwyn protested, growing more frustrated by the minute. "Will you please just tell me?"

Her sister merely smiled, and stood up. "Get some rest," she said. "I will see you tomorrow." Wrapping the cloak—which Gúthwyn now guessed to be her future husband's—around her, she departed from the room, leaving Gúthwyn alone.

Slumping back onto the pillows, Gúthwyn ground her teeth together in aggravation. How could Éowyn have taunted her like that, giving her such drastic news and yet refusing to tell her the most important part? She growled in anger, debating whether to take one of the pillows and throw it across the room.

"Is something wrong, sister?"

Glancing up, Gúthwyn saw to her chagrin that Éomer was standing in the doorway, watching her with a smile on his face. To make things even more embarrassing, both Aragorn and Legolas were behind him. Her face turned bright red as she remembered that Aragorn was now King Elessar. _What a fine impression,_ she thought, _to make in front of him!_

"By the Valar, Éomer," she said as her brother entered the room. "Pray do not sneak up on me like that!"

He sat down in the chair. "Is something wrong?" he asked again. "You looked positively furious just a minute ago."

"Éowyn will not tell me who she is going to marry!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, gripping her blanket tightly. "She says she does not want me to form a biased opinion of him! Éomer, tell me who he is, or I shall go mad!"

Éomer shifted awkwardly in the chair. "If she does not wish you to know, then I will not," he replied. "You will meet him soon."

Gúthwyn's eyes flashed, and she sent a fierce glare at her brother. "Thank you, Éomer," she said icily.

"My lady, you have much to be thankful for," Aragorn said then, stepping further into the room. "In two weeks, he will return, and you will see him."

Sighing, Gúthwyn said, "I am sorry. You are right." Now she felt ashamed of her immaturity—after all, half a month was not terribly long. Granted, she might very well die of impatience before then, but in the grand scheme of things… "I am sorry, my lord," she apologized again, flushing as Legolas' sympathetic eyes met hers.

"Have the children visited you yet?" Éomer questioned then. "Haiweth would not stop asking if you were awake."

Gúthwyn forgot about Éowyn's nameless love, and a wide smile spread across her face. "Yes," she answered, beaming. "I am so glad that they are safe. Have you been with them much?"

"I have had many duties in the past couple of months," Éomer replied, "so not as often as I would like."

"Ah," Gúthwyn said. "How is life as a king treating you, brother?"

Éomer smiled. "There is much to do," he said, and then he grew serious. "Éowyn told you of Théoden, then?"

"Yes," she replied, looking down at her hands for a moment. "I-I want to see him soon."

"You will have to wait for at least a week," Aragorn said quietly, coming to stand beside her bed. Legolas followed, and she hid her trembling hands beneath the blanket. She noticed that both of them, in addition to her brother, wore far nicer clothing than she had ever seen them in. "Your injuries were severe, and though you have been in bed for two months, you are still in the process of being healed."

Inclining her head, Gúthwyn said, "Thank you, my lord. My sister has informed me that it was you who tended to me."

"Legolas helped, as well," Éomer informed her, and she blinked in surprise.

"Well, th-thank you," she at last said nervously.

"It was the least I could do," Legolas said kindly, and Gúthwyn felt herself flush. He had seen her wounds, seen all of her weaknesses…

"M-My lord," she spoke, addressing Aragorn in order to leave behind the awkward moment. "Did I miss your coronation?"

He nodded. "You did," he said, and her shoulders slumped. "Do not think much of it, for there were others in the Houses of Healing who could not attend."

"What about you, Éomer?" Gúthwyn inquired, turning to her brother. "Have you been crowned, or has the ceremony not yet taken place?"

"I would not dream of doing it without you there," Éomer said. She felt warmth spread from her heart throughout her body. "When we return to Rohan and bury our uncle, then the feast will occur."

"Will Éowyn be with us?" she quickly asked.

"Of course," Éomer assured her. "Do not worry—she is not leaving us yet."

Gúthwyn smiled, though at his words a cold chill doused the warmth that she had felt not seconds ago.

* * *

The sun shone over Minas Tirith, illuminating with a red fire the white stone buildings. Many of the people were outside, delighting in the wonderful day. Children played on the Pelennor Fields, which had been cleaned of all the carnage from the battle, and the markets were bustling with activity. The grounds of the seventh level of the city were empty, with the exception of one person. 

Gúthwyn leaned against the stone battlements, gazing not across the White City but towards Mordor, towards where she thought the forest of Ithilien lay. Though the late afternoon sun was bright, she had wrapped a cloak tightly around her—Borogor's cloak. Today was the seventh of June. Exactly one year ago, Borogor had fallen to the foliage, his chest pierced with Faramir's arrow.

She had been out here all day, standing there quietly and reflecting on all that had changed in the time between now and then. No longer was she a helpless slave in Mordor, forced to endure every one of Haldor's punishments for the sake of the children. She was Gúthwyn, sister of the king of Rohan, with Hammel and Haiweth safely playing in the Houses of Healing. Haldor was dead, his body decaying in the woods of Amon Hen. He could not touch her now.

Yet not all of what had passed was for the better. She had found a love, though it was too late to act upon it. Borogor was gone, long buried by Faramir somewhere in Ithilien. She would never again feel his arms around her, or hear his voice murmur comforting words to her, nor fight unrestrainedly with him in the dark of night, blade and fist alike used in lengthy clashes. Instead, she was with only a poem to capture his memory, and the cloak that she now wore around her. Some of his scent was beginning to wear off.

But even as she bowed her head in misery, a new set of thoughts arose in her. These were neither happy nor sad, but full of insight into the past. Ironically, she had come to realize that if Borogor had not died, she would not have seen her family again. With his death, a catatonic state of numbness had settled over, so that when she had returned to Mordor she had been incapable of making decisions.

As a result, she had made love to Haldor. Even now, it made her sick to think of it. Only brief flashes of that night did she remember—everything had seemed brown to her for some reason. Brown, not gold. Yet it had happened, and Haldor's mocking words the next morning had been true. Self-hatred and loathing had built up within her, just waiting for the right trigger to explode.

That trigger had been Burzum. He had likely shoved Hammel or Haiweth before, but that time she had killed him for it. She could still recall the sight of his fluids on her hands, the wild fury and bloodlust that had filled her during that duel. Burzum had been the captain of the Easterlings, and his death had been reported to the Tower. When he learned of this, Sauron had sent for her.

He had sent for her to give her a mission: To find the One Ring and take it from Frodo, with the promise of the children's freedom if she succeeded. So she had gone, and by luck or coincidence had met Boromir, who had taken her to Rivendell. There, at the Council of Elrond, she had seen Frodo, and convinced the Fellowship to let her accompany them.

But Haldor had followed her. At Amon Hen he had sprung his trap, and revealed her mission to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. When she had slain him, Aragorn had given her an ultimatum: To help them find Merry and Pippin, or be killed. She had chosen the former, and the subsequent chase had led them to Fangorn Forest. Gandalf had come upon them there; he had taken them to Edoras, where she had finally reunited with her family.

And now Hammel and Haiweth were with her, safe and sound. None of this would have happened, had Borogor lived. She would have married him, and happiness would have been hers, but too brief—Haldor would have learned of their marriage, somehow, and made their lives nothing short of hell. A shudder came over her as she imagined all that the Elf could have done, if he was angry enough. He might even have killed the children.

This knowledge brought bitterness to her heart. She felt old, aged far beyond her years with all the sorrow that had been laid upon her. As Aragorn had said, she had much to be thankful for. And she was. In the past week, she had been nearly as happy as she was in Rohan. The children had been with her constantly, along with Tun, Cobryn, Lebryn, and her siblings. She had seen Merry and Pippin a couple of times, and even apologized to Frodo and Sam for what she had tried to do. They had forgiven her readily, and she hoped that in time they might build a cautious friendship.

But on June seventh, she could not help but mourn for the man she loved. As she looked towards the east, she wished more than ever that he was beside her, his arm around her and a sturdy hand holding hers.

"What are you looking at?"

Gúthwyn turned to see Haiweth approaching, walking on her tiptoes to gaze curiously over the battlements. Hammel was not far behind his sister; it seemed to her that he knew very well what her mood was.

"I am looking at all the land," Gúthwyn replied, smiling sadly at the children. "Would you like to see it?"

"Yes!" Haiweth exclaimed eagerly. Gúthwyn picked her up, taking care not to ruin the girl's new dress. She had gotten it this morning, much to her surprise and delight.

Holding Haiweth protectively, she set her down on top of the parapet so that she could gaze across the Pelennor Fields. Hammel came over and rested his arms on the wall. "What were you thinking about?" he asked quietly.

For a moment, Gúthwyn was silent. "Borogor," she eventually answered, a wistful tone in her voice.

"I miss him," Haiweth said morosely, swinging her feet over the edge of the wall. Gúthwyn tightened her grip.

"I miss him, too," she murmured, a lump forming in her throat.

"He loved you," Hammel spoke then, very calmly and matter-of-factly.

Gúthwyn stared at him, but not once did he remove his gaze from the city of Osgiliath. "What makes you say that?" she asked at last, her words a mere whisper.

"I could tell," Hammel replied, sighing. "Whenever he looked at you."

Tears brimmed in Gúthwyn's eyes, so that all of the Pelennor Fields blurred in a fiery haze. "You are right," she choked out. "He did."

Hammel said nothing, but reached a hand up to pat her comfortingly on the back.

Craning her neck to glance up at Gúthwyn, Haiweth asked, "Did you love him, too?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, her voice so quiet that she herself could barely hear it. Hammel regarded her for a moment.

"What are we going to do now?" he wanted to know.

In the midst of her sadness, Gúthwyn smiled. "Well," she said, taking a deep breath, "we are going to go with King Éomer back to Rohan."

"What is it like there?" Haiweth questioned. She had been born in the Riddermark, though had been taken to Mordor when she was two, and could not have remembered any of it.

"The people are wonderful," Gúthwyn said, turning her gaze from the east to the north. "And there are lots of horses, so I will teach you how to ride one."

Haiweth trembled. "I did not like the white horse," she muttered. "He went too fast."

"That was the lord of all horses," Gúthwyn informed her. "Shadowfax. The others will not go so swiftly."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"I would like to go to home," Hammel said, also looking to the north. "I miss it."

"And we will go," Gúthwyn told him, ruffling his hair. "Soon."

She cast one final glance to the east. Borogor lay there with the remains of her past. But to the north was her future, and Hammel and Haiweth. "Come, let us go inside," she said, and turned away from the mountains.

**The End**

**

* * *

**Well, here we are, at the end of the trilogy. I honestly cannot believe it's finished. 

Actually, I say "finished," but it's not, in fact, finished. Yes, I have taken the liberty of deciding to drag you through an epilogue. I originally came up with this idea when I decided I wanted to settle the matter of what would end up happening to Gúthwyn after she returned to Rohan, and it was supposed to only be a few chapters. But eventually it grew, and grew, and grew, until it evolved into a full-fledged fanfic, of which I am currently ten chapters into.

And that's not all. Lol, sounds like a cheesy commercial, right? Anyhoo, as some of my friends will recall, I went into a period of doubt while writing a certain part of Alone, because I was suddenly debating between two different endings to the story. One ended happily; the other, the original that I had planned, was not so happy. Both of them have their merits, and I have decided at long last--after wearing everyone's eardrums out with my hemming and hawing--to write both epilogues.

So, in short? You'll be getting an extremely long epilogue from me soon, and then a much shorter "alternate ending." I honestly cannot choose between the two of them, and though it means more reading for you guys, it's my decision and I'm sticking with it. Please feel free to read both of them--you might find you like one more than the other, and that is fine as well.

In both of these epilogues, the situation with Tun will be solved. Gúthwyn's mental health will also be examined closely, especially in the original ending I had planned. Haldor's abuse to her, as has been said before, was far more emotional than it was physical, and signs of this have already showed themselves in her actions and thoughts. Furthermore, there will bea marriage in her future. And yes, the person is different in each epilogue.

Now, I would love to thank everyone who has reviewed and supported this. Thank you guys so much! You're amazing, and I love, love, _love_ getting comments encouraging me to write more. I also welcome questions, though I tend to not answer them until the end of the current fanfiction; yet please leave any concerns in the review section!

In response to some questions that _have_ been asked...

**Callie:** No, Gúthwyn does not realize that Tun is in love with her. Hehe, it seems kind of obvious, right? Then again, it took her three years with Borogor--to be fair to her, however, she doesn't exactly know anything about love, as Haldor has done enough damage to her that she is afraid of any intimate contact with a man (or an Elf, for that matter). But I can tell you that she will figure out Tun's thoughts soon.

By the way, where have you been? I miss getting reviews from you!

**JediPadfoot:** I am sorry you think that the Legolas/Haldor situation has got out of hand. Sometimes I do wonder how much is too much. But Gúthwyn has been through severe trauma with Haldor, and she's not going to forget what he's done to her anytime soon. It's only understandable that she confuses the two, as her mind is imbalanced and they do look exactly alike. Sorry if it's a little too often for your tastes! Things will get better, though. I promise. .

**GwenevieveGreenleaf:** Thank you so much for your constant reviewing! And also, thank you, thank you, thank you for pointing out the stupid error I made with Gandalf's being in Rohan. I honestly can't believe I did that. Major facepalmmage there.

**J.C.:** Heh, thanks for pointing out the detail about Shadowfax. I actually know next to nothing about horses, which is problematic considering Gúthwyn's from Rohan; but even when you mentioned him being a stallion, not a mare, I didn't understand the difference until a friend pointed it out to me. Lol, I know, beyond dumb.

**Andi-Scribbles:** Your private message made me smile like crazy. I love Borogor, too; he's definitely one of my favorite characters, which was what made writing his death scene impossible to do! Thank you so much for taking the time to write. I really appreciate it, and I hope you enjoy both of the upcoming epilogues!

**NeFarieous: **As for what's in story for Gúthwyn... Well, you'll just have to wait and find out, lol. And you are absolutely right that she is physically free, but not really free.

Finally, I'd like to thank **toratigergirl11** and **Zo****ë**, who don't review but read every single chapter faithfully, in addition to putting up with me talking about it constantly. Thank you! And I know you're bound to be bouncing off the walls at my decision, but don't spoil it if you actually decide to review! Hehe.

To everyone who was read this and/or reviewed, thank you all so much! You're all amazing. I'm looking forward to seeing you in the epilogues!

Until then,

**WhiteLadyOfTroy**


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